


Command Structure

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anxiety Attacks, Captain John Watson, Consensual, Dom John Watson, Dom/sub Play, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Oral Sex, PTSD Sherlock, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Post-Reichenbach, Protective John, Rimming, Slow Build, Sub Sherlock Holmes, past dubious consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:37:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 49,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1330516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes returns from his hunt to destroy Moriarty's network. He comes home to John, and at long last they start this thing between them that couldn't begin while Moriarty threatened them. </p><p>But Sherlock has returned fractured and suffering anxiety attacks. He thinks he needs discipline - the whip - to help him focus and be strong. But his problems are deeper and run back to a childhood of neglect.  </p><p>John Watson is prepared to be Sherlock's Captain, but he's a doctor too. His command style isn't about pain and subjugation. It's about care and responsibility: and those concepts go in both directions in Captain Watson's command structure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my new long fic which is now completely written, and will be uploaded in parts. It's my take on a D/s relationship, fully consensual. It's not about discipline and 'correction' but about nurturing the neglected child within. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: There are aspects of child neglect and behaviours that can also be read as child abuse, in case you need to be aware of those.
> 
> As a musical aside, I recommend [Katie Melua's Toy Collection](http://youtu.be/Nt98rpnFANQ)

_One of his earliest memories is of crying and crying and crying. Then small hands pick him up and rock him, and a young voice says: “Shh, shh. You’ll just make Father cross.” He huddles against a small, chubby, flat-chested body (it certainly isn’t Mummy and it isn’t the stern man) and his sobs hiccup away. It is the first time he remembers feeling scared and alone, and then safe. Scared and alone came often after that. Safe, hardly ever. Not until much, much later; long after he’d convinced himself he didn’t feel scared and lonely any more._

*****

Baker Street, at 1am, was quiet, but only in the usual way. Nothing sinister was lurking in the shadows, and there hadn’t been for months. With the safety of more than one life to consider, however, caution still paid. John Watson fitted the key into the front door lock, turned it, opened the door just enough to enter, and went inside. With practised, easy speed, he closed the door behind him and locked the solid frame of steel-reinforced wood. The passer-by would never have noticed the upgrade.

“Is that you, John, dear?”

John looked in the direction of Mrs Hudson’s door.  “Just me,” he confirmed, “Sorry if I woke you.”

Mrs Hudson appeared in the front hall. She was wiping her damp hands on a floury apron.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted.

They exchanged weary smiles that only faintly reached their eyes. Eighteen months, and still the sorrow persisted: Mrs Hudson mourning her one-time saviour, her sometime substitute son.

John’s sorrow was more complicated. For a start, unlike Mrs Hudson, he knew Sherlock wasn’t really dead. Not at last report, anyway. Well, for such obscure and erratic reports as came in from Mycroft, at any rate. John had no doubt that Mycroft knew more than he was saying, and was excluding him from the detail for Sherlock’s safety. For other reasons too, perhaps. They’d fought about that more than once, but Mycroft held all the cards. John just had to grit his teeth and endure it.

That first week, though. That first week of believing it true, before John had put the pieces together, _that_ had given him sorrow and to spare for the months that followed. His fear for Sherlock’s safety, off in the unknown, fuelled enough public grief for everyone who knew John to believe in Sherlock’s death too. It was a lonely secret.

“Well," said Mrs Hudson, “I’ll let you get to bed. You must be tired after your shift. I’ll bring you some cake tomorrow. It’s just gone in the oven.”

“That’d be lovely.” He kissed her cheek. “Try to get some rest, though. Promise me?”

“I will, dear.” Even though they knew it was a hit and miss affair. Learning someone had threatened her life, that Sherlock had died to protect her (that much Mycroft had allowed she should know), that her home was now fortified against uncertainty, if not the loss, it had taken a toll on her. “You too,” she admonished at the end 

John knew that she heard his nightmares sometimes. He appreciated that she never commented on them more directly.

Up the stairs he went. He fetched his keys out again and unlocked the door into 221B. It annoyed him, still, the extra security that Mycroft had insisted upon, but he supposed it was for a good reason.

He stepped in, flicked on the light, closed and locked the door as was his habit.

And froze.

Someone else was in the flat.

Someone who was not Mycroft.

John hadn’t lived alone in this tense, empty silence for eighteen months without learning to tell when someone else was in it. Mycroft’s presence, though, had a distinctive timbre to it. A subtle sound of measured breathing, sometimes the _tap tap tap_ of a ferrule on floorboards, always the faint scent of expensive cologne and the polish from the handle of that damned umbrella.

The scent of this intruder was definitely not subtle. Sour, rather, mouldy, and a little brackish too, redolent of the Thames at low tide. Unpleasant.

John, moving carefully to the balls of his feet, knees bending slightly, poised for action, surveyed the living room from where he stood. Empty, but the Union Jack cushion had been moved.

He turned his head slightly to expand his field of vision. The table was almost untouched, but for the tea cup and saucer. Half filled with cold tea. Not his, obviously, his were rinsed and upended on the draining board. From the door, John could see grimy smudges on the cup handle, a dirty thumbprint on the saucer.

His careful sweep took in the kitchen. He stepped soundlessly in that direction. The nasty odour was stronger here, as through the miscreant had lingered, or was close by. The kettle had been moved a fraction from its usual post. And there, a packet of unopened Hob Nobs at rest beside it. Someone had clearly attempted to split the packaging and had it given up as too hard. He knew the feeling, after a long, debilitating shift in emergency.

John’s heart began to hammer with a hope he hadn’t dared to feel in the longest time.

Still, no sense being careless this close to the end ( _please, God, let it be the end_ ) of the road. John slid the carving knife out of the knife block, gripped it firmly, and made his quiet way down to what he still and always thought of as Sherlock’s room.

The door was ajar, and the strong smell wafted from the gap. John pushed at the door with the tip of the knife and let it creak slowly wide.

The filthy figure in the stained track pants and hoodie raised his chin slightly, as though it were an enormous effort, rats’ nest hair sticking in a dirty tangle from the sides. The stinking trainers were strapped to one foot with duct tape, to the other with string. The man’s hands were grimy and covered in cuts and scrapes. The angular face was smeared in dirt and was dark with a three-day growth. The vagabond seemed to have the vestiges of a black eye, as well as a bruised and bleeding mouth.

John would have known him anywhere.

“Sherlock,” he breathed.

The ragged man lifted his head further and properly opened his pale, ocean blue eyes. “The attic window is not secure,” said Sherlock, in a rasping voice.

“It was,” said John, and already the exasperated fondness was back. It was the vanguard of larger feelings, some held at bay for years already. First behind it, though, was the breathless, hardly-believing-it joy, bubbling up.

Sherlock’s smile was lopsided and revealed discoloured teeth. “Not any more.” Despite the weariness, he sounded mighty pleased with himself.

John grinned, and could not stop grinning. “You could have just knocked, you pillock.”

Sherlock was suddenly serious. On edge. “No. Not yet. The final move is being played out as we speak, and I need to remain unseen until then. But I thought it might be… good. To wait out the last hours here. With you. If you have no objections.” He had fought his voice back down to level calm by the end.

“Okay,” said John, trying to match Sherlock’s lighter tone, sensing the struggle in it. Sensing Sherlock’s need for calm and control. He had only the slightest idea of what Sherlock had been through this year and a half, but he had experience and imagination enough to fill in the gaps. “Pretty sure there’s a repeat of Jonathan Creek on iPlayer. You always…” his voice thickened for a moment, “…loved picking that one apart.”

They paused, looking at each other, insipient laughter catching in their throats, threatening to become something else.

John broke the moment first, _ahem_ ing gruffly, gesturing sheepishly with head and eyebrows at the knife he still held. He waggled the implement awkwardly. “Guess I won’t be needing this, then.”

“Keep it close,” and Sherlock’s voice was tight and dark again, “Just in case.” His mouth tensed, pulling into a fleeting, anxious frown. “Your gun would be better.” He dragged his thumb across his upper lip in that fractious habit of old, back and forth. “You can’t leave Baker Street again until I say, John. You have to stay here until it’s done with.”

There it was again, the exhaustion John had first noted, the thrum of desperation underneath it. Sherlock was faking a good game, but he was close to the edge.

“Whatever you say,” said John gently; soothingly.

“I’m serious, John.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” John reassured him, “It’s going to be all right. I’m just going to get Mrs Huds…”

“ _No!_ ”

Sherlock lurched up from the bed, grabbed John’s wrists in a vicious grip, as strong as ever.

“Sherlock, calm down. Breathe. It’s all right.”

“Stop telling me it’s _all right_ , John. I know what it is, and it is not yet _all right_.” Sherlock was sucking in air through his teeth, hissing it out again as he spoke. John was reminded of Sherlock’s panic attack at Baskerville. He tried not to flinch as Sherlock snarled into his face. Sherlock’s breath was foul. Waves of the sour, swampy odour rose from his body and clothes. His eyes were over-bright.

All the joy vanished, subsumed by concern. John had assumed Sherlock’s foul state was a disguise of some kind, but Sherlock was clearly unwell, perhaps injured.

“It’s okay,” said John, swallowing down panic, “It’s all right, Sherlock. I’m not going anywhere. I just need to get…”

“ _No!”_ Sherlock’s grip tightened. John felt the bones and muscles in his wrists protest at the abuse, “You stay here. You stay here with me. Where I can see you. You can’t leave before it’s done. You can’t risk it.” His grip shifted, still too strong, first digging fingers into John’s biceps and then his shoulders.

“Sherlock…”

“We just have to _wait_.” Sherlock’s voice was a snarl but the tone was oddly pleading. The iron grip shifted again, both hands pressed into John’s jaw, then the back of his head, making him stare straight into eyes fever-bright. “I didn’t do all of this to lose you now. I didn’t go through all of this for you to make some stupid mistake _now_. You stay here. You stay here with me until it’s safe.”

“Sherlock, calm down, please. I’m…”

“ ** _No_**.” This time the syllable was almost a wail, and Sherlock clamped his mouth shut tight on it. A small, muffled moan erupted, trapped behind his clenched teeth, his eyes gone helpless with despair, and then fierce with decision. He hauled John close.

Sherlock kissed John. Ungently. Lips a hard line, mashed against John’s startled mouth, but definitely a kiss. Sherlock’s mouth softened suddenly, his lips parted, and then he drew away as though stung and he stared at John, absolutely stricken. “Don’t go,” he whispered hoarsely, breath hitching, “John, d-don’t r-risk…” Clearly torn between pulling away and drilling that message into John’s thick head, his fingers flexed compulsively against John’s skull.

In that moment, John knew exactly what to do. Exactly. The kiss was not… not how it was supposed to have gone. Certainly not with Sherlock reeking, breath sour from neglect and starvation. But a kiss, of some kind, slow or fast, tentative or claiming, that had been inevitable. He’d known it since long before that awful day that ended on the rooftop. They’d been taking their time, but it was always going to happen. Always.

John reached up to stroke Sherlock’s face, as soothing as he knew how. He leaned up a little, forward, pressed his closed mouth to Sherlock’s lips in reassurance, and some of the panic bled away from Sherlock’s eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” said John, tenderly, “I’m staying right here with you. Right here. Right here. Until you say it’s safe. I promise.”

Sherlock took a few more hitching breaths, but the fight had gone right out of him. John could see how Sherlock’s pulse tripped, how Sherlock started to shake. “Good.”

“I need to look after you, now.”

“I don’t need looking after, John.”

“I’m going to do it anyway.”

“I…”

“Shush, now. On the bed.”

“John…”

John frowned at him, and seemed to grow taller, broader. His voice deepened a fraction. “Sit. Now.” The tone was still gentle, but it also clearly brooked no argument.

Sherlock sat.

John checked his pulse properly, ran his hands over Sherlock’s frame but found no significant wounds. Some bruising, some scrapes. Weight loss. All the signs of terrible fatigue. Nothing obviously debilitating, nothing hiding some horrific internal injury. The brightness of Sherlock’s eyes had nothing to do with fever, after all, owing everything – almost everything – to the encroaching delirium of long term stress and too long without sufficient rest.

“When did you last eat?” John held Sherlock’s head in his hands, looking at the dilation of his pupils, how well Sherlock could track him as he moved, checking for infection in his ears, his mouth. Checking – thankfully fruitlessly - for lice and fleas.

“Yeste… day before yesterday. I think.”

“Sleep?”

“Not sure. An hour this morning?”

“And then you climbed up the walls and onto the roof to get in here.” It wasn’t accusatory; merely an observation. “Right. Lie back.”

“John, I’m filthy.”

“I’m well aware. Lie down.” That same firm voice, expecting obedience and, for a wonder, getting it. John tried to remove the foul trainers. The one tied on with string came away well enough, and John was relieved to see Sherlock’s foot grimy and blistered, but not otherwise diseased. The one held on with duct tape, however, wouldn’t budge.

“Sherlock, I’m going to the kitchen, and then the bathroom. Just those two rooms. I will talk to you the whole time so you can hear me. I’m not leaving. I promised you I’d stay with you, and I’m staying with you. But I need some things. You are to stay in bed.”

“I don’t need…”

“Stay in bed and don’t move.”

“Stop mollycoddling…”

“Sherlock.” Sharp, a hard downward inflection accompanied by a stone hard glare.

“I know what you’re doing, _Captain Watson_ ,” said Sherlock, with the faintest trace of a sneer. Mostly, he seemed relieved, as though he was only putting up a token resistance.

“Fabulous. Maybe you’ll shut up and let me do it, then.” With a parting look of warning, John marched out of the room. He made a point of being noisy as he emptied a can of soup into a bowl and shoved it in the microwave. He called out: “Tomato soup. And don’t start. It’s not like you gave me notice so I could shop ahead for your favourites, and this’ll be easy for you to digest.” He moved around, gathering up the first aid kit, scissors, cloths.

In the bathroom John got soap, flannels, towels, conditioner, toothpaste, a new toothbrush (the second of a new packet of three) and a comb.  “Lucky you, I’ve just done the wash. Not the fluffy five star hotel towels you’re used to, of course, in your tour of Continental Europe.” (He could hear the puff of laughter at that, and how it sounded so strained, so like not a laugh at all.) John filled a large, round tub (normally used for soaking his feet after a long day on the go at the hospital) with warm water. He stopped back in the room to put that on the floor.

“Bit small for a bath,” said Sherlock, making another effort at a sneer.

“You’d be surprised,” was all John said, dropping a flannel into the water, and a bar of soap. The microwave pinged. He went out, returned with another container filled with supplies, and a mug of warm soup with a spoon stuck in it. He put the soup on the bedside cabinet, everything else on the end of the bed.

“Here.” John helped Sherlock to sit up, concerned but not surprised that Sherlock suddenly found it such an effort. The man had finally hit his wall and could go no further, and he’d lost all strength and coordination. John had seen that before, in men recently back from the battlefield. “There we go.” A pillow behind and to one side helped to keep him stable. Sherlock’s hands shook.

“Come on, it’s all right. Just sit there. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock, eyes closed, obeyed, then opened his eyes again. John lifted a small spoonful of soup and blew on it, then held it to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock opened his mouth and let John tilt the liquid in.

They did this three, four times.

“Do you have to buy the cheapest brand?” Sherlock complained, then opened his mouth for the next spoonful.

“Yep. I do it to piss you off. I had no idea when you were planning to drop back in, though, and I got hungry. I’ve been eating rubbish for a year and a half waiting for the chance to annoy you.” Once more, the joke faltered into silence. John paused to lean his forehead against Sherlock’s, not caring about bad breath or the grease and grime. Sherlock nudged against the pressure, returning it. John kissed Sherlock’s brow briefly, then went back to feeding him small spoonfuls of soup.

The tremor in Sherlock’s hands had calmed but not vanished. John took the spoon away and pressed the warm cup into Sherlock’s fingers. “Think you can manage to get some more of that in you?”

“With a masterful effort. It’s swill.” Sherlock sipped and the cup rattled against his lower teeth for a second, before steadying. He took another sip.

“Right. Let me know if anything hurts.”

John moved to the end of the bed with the rest of his supplies. He cut the tape off the second trainer and threw the shoe into the corner with its abandoned mate. A brief inspection left John relatively happy with the state of Sherlock’s feet. Then he took the scissors to the track pants, cutting them up both sides along the seams but left them otherwise in place for the moment. The briefs underneath were grey and full of holes, stained with mud and riverwater. John cut those up the sides as well. The filthy hoodie and the threadbare T-shirt underneath got the same treatment.

Sherlock tried to put the mug down on the side table, but his limbs were trembling again. John took the cup and put it aside. “Can you lift yourself up…?”

He couldn’t. Sherlock’s jaw clenched, a helpless fury rising in him, but John just sat beside him, took Sherlock briskly into his arms and helped him to turn, bracing him with his left arm and pulling the rags away with his other. They were tossed into the corner with the shoes. Carefully, John lowered Sherlock back onto the bed.

“This is ridiculous,” muttered Sherlock, arm flung over his eyes, sounding close to tears. His pale skin was smeared with dirt and grime; with dried blood, in parts. Scabs over scrapes. “It’s _humiliating_.”

John brought the tub of soapy water close, wrung out the flannel, began to swipe at the filth. “You’re being illogical,” he said calmly. He wiped Sherlock’s hands first, then along his arms. “You’re experiencing a perfectly normal chemical reaction to long term stress and associated adrenalin rush. Your reaction isn’t uncommon, especially not in combat. When I was in the army, I used to see this, blokes coming back in from long patrols. Some of them were days out at a time. One fire team was out there for a month before they were evac’ed back to base. I got like this myself, sometimes, after a rough patrol. You’ve been gone a lot longer than that. Even for you, that’s a lot to come down from. Don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine soon enough.”

“Is that so, _Captain Watson_?”

John smiled at the complete lack of sting, despite the attempt.

“That is indeed so, _Sherlock Holmes_.”

Sherlock blinked at him, but made no further protests.

Periodically, John bent to rinse the flannel, then gently wiped at the dirt. He lifted Sherlock’s arms to clean his armpits, down his ribs. He cleaned Sherlock’s throat and face. The black eye was an old bruise, healing well. The cut on his mouth more recent, but uninfected. John wiped the wounds carefully and treated them as best he could with his limited supplies.

John pulled Sherlock against his chest and wiped down the nape of his neck, his back, the base of his spine. When John reached Sherlock’s hips, he rubbed the flannel briskly over them, over his thighs. With the flannel a little more soaked, he washed Sherlock’s genitals quickly, impersonally. Pulling him forward again, he scrubbed Sherlock’s backside and between the cheeks, swiftly, still impersonally, while Sherlock held to his shoulders and said not a word. John could feel the tremor in Sherlock’s limbs. He reached for a hand towel and dried Sherlock’s back before he tugged the bedspread down from the pillows to Sherlock’s thighs. Then John lowered him back on the bed before drying the rest of the residual dampness away.

“That might be uncomfortable beneath your back for a minute, I’m sorry. I’m getting clean water. I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock lay collapsed on the mattress, his arm over his eyes again, the top half of him clean, and had nothing else to say. When John returned, he finished washing and drying Sherlock’s legs and feet. He treated the clean scratches with antiseptic cream, and a plaster where needed. Then he stripped the remainder of the bedspread away, and managed to turn down the bedding so that Sherlock, more or less clean and patched up, was resting against sheets that had been fresh a year and a half ago and unused since.  He pulled the sheets and blankets up over Sherlock’s thin body, over the healing bruises and scrapes, and the new scars.

Another trip to the bathroom for fresh water, left on the bedside cabinet for now, then to the kitchen, during which John said: “Everyone had the thing, you know, that they did when they got back from patrol. McClaskey couldn’t wait to kick his boots off and stick his feet in a bucket of ice water. He was an utter shit about it if he couldn’t get any ice. Davis just went to the latrine and sat there reading a paper for as long as he could get away with it. An hour, sometimes. Bertoloni used to wind him up about getting haemorrhoids. The one thing that always made _me_ feel human again, after being on patrol for too bloody long…” John returned with two glasses of water and an empty plastic bowl, “Clean teeth.”

Sherlock sucked at his own teeth and grimaced.

“Think you can manage it?”

“Damned well going to try,” Sherlock muttered.

Putting the glasses and bowl on the side cupboard, John sat close beside Sherlock then slid an arm under his shoulders. “Sit up a little. Here you go.” He moved so that Sherlock was resting against his chest.

Sherlock seemed distressed at the contact. “My hair is filthy,” he complained, “My…”

“I know. It’s all right. I’ve dealt with much worse than dirty hair. Come on.” John pressed a toothbrush into Sherlock’s shaking fingers, squeezed paste onto the bristles. “Do you need help with that?”

Sherlock simply jammed the toothbrush into his mouth and overcame the tremors with the sheer force of scrubbing. Periodically, John helped him to spit and rinse into the bowl, working through the two glasses of water. Once or twice there was blood in the suds, but most of the tooth discoloration had been artfully applied that morning. Sherlock scrubbed, demanded more toothpaste, scrubbed again, until John made a point of taking the toothbrush away from him. “Rinse now. If you keep going, you’ll make your gums bleed again.”

Sherlock rinsed. Slumped.

“Just a little longer,” John promised, “We can’t do this properly until tomorrow, okay, but I’m going to do my best now.”

With the fresh tub of lukewarm water, John sponged Sherlock’s hair, removing the surface layers of dirt. He separated some knots with his fingers, then poured conditioner into the worst of it and tried again, first with his fingers, then with the comb. When the knots were too difficult, he left them. Sherlock lay limply against John’s chest, forehead pressed to John’s sternum, and let John minister to him.

“I’m not so good at this bit,” John laughed a little.

“’S fine,” mumbled Sherlock.

“Well, that’s good, then.” John swept the flannel a final time over Sherlock’s damp curls to remove most of the conditioner. With another fresh towel, he soaked up as much of the excess moisture as possible. His own shirt was soaked through. It didn’t matter a damn. He shifted, tugged out the dirty pillow and pulled one of the spares over instead.

John moved all glasses, bowls, tubs and first aid materials out into the kitchen, shoved the stinking clothes into a bin liner to stow in the far corner of the bathroom, and pushed the dirty bedding into the laundry hamper

On his return to the bedroom, Sherlock blinked tiredly up at him. “All finished, _Captain_?” His tone was still strangely acquiescent.

“Almost.” John sat at the edge of the bed. “Before. That kiss. Was that just to shock me into stopping?”

“Not… just for that,” Sherlock admitted warily.

“All right then.” John leaned over to kiss Sherlock, very gently, and Sherlock responded, just as gently, a soft pressure of mouth on mouth.

“Much nicer,” said John, and stroked his fingers down Sherlock’s cheek.

“Much,” agreed Sherlock, and he reached for John again.

John held his face and they kissed, one time, two, three, little soft movements of their lips together, until John withdrew. “Go to sleep, Sherlock. We’ve got plenty of time, now.”

“I d-”

“Don’t make me make it an order.” But John was smiling.

“Like to see you try,” said Sherlock, but he was already slipping into sleep.

John stripped down to his pants and crawled into bed beside Sherlock. He curved an arm around Sherlock’s waist, pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s spine, and exhaled the last pent up breath he held.

*


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after. Sherlock feels much, much better. He takes John upstairs to demonstrate just how much better he's feeling.
> 
> A little later, a very angry Mrs Hudson wishes to Have Words with her tenant about keeping the noise down when he brings people home...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added a few more tags, including potential trigger warnings for future chapters. (past abuse in a relationship).

_When Grandmere died, he was forbidden to cry. “You are six years old and much too big to cry. Grandmere would be ashamed of you.” Actually, he was sure that Grandmere would have given him a cuddle and a sweet, but Grandmere was gone now, and that was it. No more hugs. No more sweets. And they’d been precious and scarce as it was, especially now that Mycroft was 13 and came home between terms with a disdainful sneer and folded arms. So he held his breath and stuck his chin out and he didn’t cry for Grandmere, or himself, or anyone, for the longest, longest time._

*

John was alone in Sherlock’s bed when he woke up. He had a half second of panic, but a faint whiff of Sherlock’s filthy street clothes persisted, and he could hear someone moving about the kitchen. The radio was on; and then a very distinctive, utterly wonderful voice, hooted in triumph.

“ _Ha!_ There. I _knew_ it. John! _John!_ ”

Grinning at the robust and positively joyful note in Sherlock’s voice, John shoved the blankets aside and, dressed only in his pants, emerged from the bedroom.

Sherlock was wrapped in his robe of old, dancing gleefully around the kitchen with the radio held aloft. The bruising around his eye looked was mottled and fading, the cut on his mouth clean and already healing. His hair was properly clean now; he’d obviously scrubbed himself to a thorough shine, and spent ages on his curls. John found himself laughing with delight at the sight of him.

Sherlock grinned at John, made a point of appreciating the mostly naked view, and pranced up to him. _Pranced._ You’d hardly know it was the same man who’d been such a wreck the previous night.

“Listen,” said Sherlock, holding the radio up for John to hear. The tail end of a news report talked about the cracking open of a cell of domestic terrorists, led by one Sebastian Moran, wanted by multiple international agencies for crimes against almost everything.

“The home secretary said today that special thanks belonged to Sergeant Gregory Lestrade, former Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard who was disgraced in the fallout from the suicide of fraudulent private eye, Sherlock Holmes. ‘Lestrade got hold of the original lead, and it is due to his diligence and proven investigative skills that this terrorist cell has been dealt with today. Whatever his past misjudgements, he has certainly made up for them with this operation’.”

John scowled. Sherlock put the radio on the table. “No, John, don’t you see, this is excellent news. Well, I knew Lestrade was at one end of this, but he’d found the threads himself and started pulling months ago. Mycroft and I only had to throw a few crumbs his way. I always said he was the best of a bad lot.”

“You always called him an idiot,” John pointed out.

“Yes. Well.” Sherlock finally stopped jittering about, halting in front of John and smiling down at him. He slid an arm around John’s waist and tugged him close, and John happily fell into the embrace. “All that work, finally come to fruition, and my name nowhere near it, except as a dead fool, while Lestrade quite deservingly gets the credit. It’s marvellous, John, just as I planned. Now.” He kissed John, softly at first, slowly, savouring the pressure, and John leaned up.

Lips parted and tongues twined. Sherlock’s arms tightened around John while John reached up to bury his fingers in those wonderful curls. He’d missed being able to do that last night. He had waited so very, very long to be able to do it at all.

Sherlock seemed intent on kissing John forever, and for long minutes John was perfectly happy with that. Then his stomach rumbled. Sherlock looked offended. John just laughed.

“All my baser instincts are vying for attention,” he said, “Have you eaten?”

“No.” He scowled at John’s expression.

“Well, sit, and I’ll make something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Sherlock’s stomach rumbled in direct contradiction and John very pointedly said nothing at all, just delivered one of those elegant wordless ripostes using only his eyebrows and a sardonic tilt of the lips.

With an aggrieved sigh, Sherlock sat. John leaned down to give Sherlock another kiss and a smile, before turning to empty instant porridge into two bowls and stirred milk into the flakes. He shoved the bowls side by side into the microwave and set it to cook for the requisite minute and a half.

John had a momentary flash of insight, at how often he had once complained about finding non-food items in the fridge, in the microwave, on the stove, and how much he’d turned out to hate having a hygienic kitchen after all. Using kitchen appliances for their correct designated function had been outright depressing, some days. Not long now, he supposed, before he’d be complaining about gall bladders in the butter dish and eyeballs in the oven again. It was disturbing how much he was looking forward to it.

“I had plans for this morning,” complained Sherlock. John turned around to discover Sherlock giving his naked torso a lascivious look for emphasis. Heat pooled in his groin, giving Sherlock something else to stare lasciviously at.

John laughed a bit breathlessly. “All the more reason to eat. I’ll want you to keep your strength up.” The deep spark in his blue eyes made Sherlock’s skin flush a pleasing pink.

John swept up the blanket that habitually lay folded over the back of his chair and slung it on, toga style, before dishing up the porridge laden with butter and sugar.

They ate in companionable silence, neither commenting on how, under the table, their feet met and touched and twined. As their spoons clinked against the bottom of the bowls, Sherlock looked up at John.

“We have a week or so while Mycroft has me declared officially Not Dead. I have some ideas of how we can pass the time. If last night was not… an aberration.” He looked uncertain all of a sudden.

John wondered how Sherlock could possibly doubt him. He rose and stood beside his friend – whom he loved, so very much. He ran his fingers over Sherlock’s cheek, under his chin, then tilted that wonderful face up so that he could lean down and kiss it some more. That mouth, those cheeks, that brow, the end of that nose. The little feathering kisses of adoration, ending in a long deep kiss, tongue exploring the edges of Sherlock’s lips then, as Sherlock responded in kind, gently caressing Sherlock’s own exploratory tongue.

“Why didn’t we do this before?” John breathed, withdrawing to press kisses to Sherlock’s jaw.

Sherlock nudged his nose up against John’s. “No, no,” he murmured, “We couldn’t possibly have done. I would never have been able to leave, and I knew it was likely that I must, that I would have to deal with Moriarty first. I’ve known that ever since the pool.”

“I would have gone with you.”

“No, John. When I realised I wanted to start something with you, I simultaneously knew that Moriarty’s plans for me would by Byzantine and deadly to us both. I knew if we started, I would never be able to leave you, and I knew that if you came with me, one or both of us would die. Certainly by the time it was inevitable, you couldn’t join me without Mrs Hudson or Lestrade or both being forfeit.”

John, forehead pressed to Sherlock’s, breathed slowly, calming the flood of rising ire and distress. He wasn’t sure Sherlock was right; but he wasn’t convinced he was wrong, either.

“I tried to tell you I was alive,” whispered Sherlock, “I gave you as much as I dared and still know you would be safe.”

“I know.” John resumed pressing his lips to Sherlock’s skin, over and over, finally having what he knew they’d both wanted, had both denied themselves. Sherlock wound a hand around John’s neck to hold him still and brought their mouths together, hungrily. He pulled John yet closer, one hand burrowing under the blanket to caress his skin.

“Does that mean you’re never leaving again?” John murmured, arching into the touch.

“Of course,” and then the clipped, efficient tone broke down into hot, helpless moan. “I couldn’t. God. I couldn’t.” He rose, gripping John’s hand, and tugged, first towards his own room and then, thinking about the musty sheets and the grubby pillows, towards the staircase. John, grinning, allowed himself to be led.

“I have a clean bill of health,” Sherlock announced as he chivvied John ahead, partly so he could lean up and kiss-bite John’s arse through his boxers, “And I know about you.”

Three months after John realised that Sherlock was not dead after all; one month after secret meetings with Mycroft began; John had discreetly had his blood tests done. He’d been celibate ever since. He’d often berated himself for the implications of his actions – presumptuous, base and carnal, arrogant, he’d thought at different times - but on that day it had felt like the only thing he had to offer as an act of faith. It was, in its way, an act of hope, too. _I’m ready, when you come home. We’ll be ready to finally start this thing._

They reached John’s room and all but fell onto the mattress, kissing and licking, mouthing at muscle and stroking skin with desperate hands, every touch soothing an aching loss, and every touch setting blood on fire. Sherlock’s robe vanished one way, John’s pants another (the blanket had been lost on the stairs) and they clung together.

Sherlock pulled John on top, wanting to feel the weight of him pressing down, wanting to feel anchored and connected. John spread his legs to straddle Sherlock’s hips and arched and wriggled, trying to feel every limb, every muscle, every movement under him. John took his mouth from Sherlock’s only long enough to suckle at Sherlock’s neck, then his nipples, moving back to claim kisses and moans in between.

Sherlock whimpered at the attention, pushed up with his hips so that their erections ground together, grasped John’s arse and, kneading, pulled them harder together. Sherlock wanted John’s cock in his mouth, he’d fantasised about it for months, for years, but he couldn’t move away from this, now, John’s kisses and his teeth and tongue on Sherlock’s throat and chest. This, now, was perfect, and there was time for the rest later, all of it, John’s mouth on every part of him, his mouth full of every part of John, but _this, now_ , **_this_** , was exquisite, was John, was home, was, was, was…

Sherlock cried out, hoarse and inarticulate, as he came and John keened his own release and then pressed his face to Sherlock’s face, to his shoulder, to his throat, panting and cursing and kissing and imploring between breaths. “Sherlock, god, Sherlock, yes, fuck yes, god, I missed you. I missed you, so fucking much. God, Sherlock, don’t, don’t, don’t ever leave me again. I love you. I love you.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, held him close. He wanted to say it back, but the words stuck in his mouth. Everything halted and he trembled, head to foot, shook like a small earthquake, till his teeth chattered. He crushed John tighter to him, as though John might vanish, as he’d done in countless dreams and nightmares. Sherlock’s eyes were screwed tightly shut and the breath felt trapped in his lungs and he did not let go, did not let go, did not let go, because he couldn’t bear for this not to be real. If he held tight and trusted his senses – touch, taste, scent, the sound of John saying his name, and the sight, when he opened his eyes, just a little, of that golden skin, the strands of light brown hair – then it was real. It was real this time. It was.

“Hey, hey, hey,” John was saying, nonsensically, Sherlock thought, but the sound of John’s voice saying anything at all was too perfect to complain about. John tried to wriggle higher up, but Sherlock’s grip only became tighter. Instead, then, John relaxed, sank into the tight embrace, sank into the heat of Sherlock’s body, settling his own into the hollows and bumps until they fitted perfectly together. “I’m here, Sherlock. I’m here, and you’re home. We’re all right, baby. We’re all right.”

Sherlock had never been called ‘baby’ in his life and wished to lodge an objection to the infantilisation, but all he could do was press his lips to John’s skin, over and over and over, until the trembling subsided.

Afterwards, there was more kissing. Soft caresses. Unexpectedly, sleep, the two of them wound together, listening to the steady bump of one another’s hearts.

Later, John extricated himself from Sherlock’s sleepy arms, but only by promising to return immediately with tea.

John was leaning against the sink, wrapped in Sherlock’s robe and smiling like an idiot while the tea brewed, when Mrs Hudson used her key to enter the flat. John grinned at her, a dazzling expression that faded at her angry frown.

She thumped a cake tin on the table. “Here you are, Doctor Watson.” Never had a cake been so ungraciously given. John suspected that she would rather have thrown it in his face.

“Mrs Hudson…”

“If you would be so _kind_ ,” she said curtly, “When you bring _company_ home, to try to keep it _down_ a little.”

“Ah…”

“I’m sure it’s only natural, you bringing someone home. I’m sure… I’m just your landlady. I…”

John began to wonder how best to break the happy news without giving her a heart attack. “I didn’t bring a woman home last night, Mrs Hudson.”

“I know it wasn’t a _woman_ , Doctor Watson.”

“No, I mean… here, sit down.”

“Do not tell me to _sit down_ in that tone of voice, _Doctor_ Watson. I’m 72, not _stupid_. I know you had sex with a man. Here. In Sherlock’s…” She clamped her mouth shut for a moment before speaking again. “I know it’s not my business. I know he…”

“It’s Sherlock.” John bit his lip. He hadn’t meant to announce it in quite that way.

She blinked.

Oh well. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, and at least he was medical help on the spot if she needed it. “He’s not dead. He faked it so he could eliminate Moriarty’s empire without putting us in danger. He came back last night. He’s… he’s asleep right now. It’s… are you okay?” Which he asked because, apart from being teary, she seemed perfectly all right. She’d even started to smile.

“The silly boy,” she said, then laughed and hiccupped on the sound. “I’d hoped… he was always so clever, and it didn’t make any sense, him doing that… silly boy. And you and he…? Oh, John, it’s about time!”

“We’re so glad you approve,” said a deep voice drily, but the underlying warmth and affection was undeniable.

Mrs Hudson flew to Sherlock, hugging him tight, even though Sherlock was wearing nothing more than an artfully wrapped sheet. Then, laughing, she pulled away and slapped him on the shoulder. “Look at you. Not dressed for decent people.” She hugged him again anyway.

“I don’t have any clothes. John threw my disguise in the bin.”

“You’ve still got a wardrobe full of stuff,” chided John, but he was grinning at the pair of them. 

“All the way down here,” said Sherlock, his cheek resting on the top of his Mrs Hudson’s head, “I wasn’t planning on leaving bed all day, as you recall.”

“Oh you,” said Mrs Hudson, refusing steadfastly to blush, “I’ll leave you to your reunion in a moment. There.” She drew back, her face lit up with joy and mischief. “I’m sure you two have a lot to… _talk_ about.”

John considered whether _he_ should learn how to blush.

“I’ll come back later,” she promised, and she winked. “I’ll knock first.”

“You are, as always, the spirit of discretion,” said Sherlock. He kissed her brow, showed her firmly to the door and locked it behind her. He took hold of the robe John wore and tugged John around to push him firmly against the door frame. John submitted to Sherlock’s fierce, passionate kiss for a second before responding in kind, participating in and not just receiving the demanding heat. Sherlock held him in place before kissing, licking, nibbling his way down John’s torso. John grinned and gasped.

“I wanted to do this last night,” Sherlock said, his voice almost a growl, before his mouth slipped, hot and wet and greedy, over John’s cock.

Later, when Mrs Hudson brought up a casserole for dinner, she knocked first, and made no comment on how sated and cheerfully worn out they both were.

*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The people left behind start to find out that Sherlock's back. Molly's happy of course. Some people are less so. Sergeant Lestrade, for example, is kind of pissed off. He didn't even know Sherlock was alive, so it's perhaps not surprising that he really isn't prepared for the ways that Sherlock has changed.
> 
> And Sherlock has changed. He's a little bit broken, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the previous chapter are relatively short, so I thought I'd give you two in a day...

_Mycroft came back from school for the holidays and the first thing he did was go to his little brother’s room and spring through the door, like a jack in the box. His baby brother squealed in glee and raced towards Mycroft, that toddler-tumble that seemed as likely to end in a fall as a destination._

_Mycroft, eight and a half, dropped to his knees and giggled into the baby’s curly hair. Baby. Nearly two now, after Christmas anyway. Practically grown up.  Big blue eyes, pale as the sea, looked up and Mycroft frowned._

_“Don’t suck your thumb, Sherlock. Father will be furious. Only stupid people do that.” Sherlock blinked and kept on sucking. Mycroft heard footsteps in the hall and grabbed his brother’s hand, pulling it away forcibly from his mouth. “Don’t,” he hissed, “Or you’ll get in trouble.” Sherlock gaped at him, and looked like he would cry, but gulped instead. “Don’t be a cry baby,” whispered Mycroft, before the door could open and Father tell him off, “I’m **helping** you.” _

*

Other people had to be told of Sherlock’s return, of course. Mycroft had to set wheels in motion for the clearing of Sherlock’s name, for his reinstatement as a living person.

Molly had known all along, of course. John called her and she came by to visit, all tears and happy laughter, bringing flowers and then getting embarrassed, particularly when it was obvious that bringing flowers to Sherlock was now technically John’s department. But Sherlock was gracious. After she left, he even put some of them in a cracked vase he found at the back of the cupboard. (The rest he slowly pulled apart to examine under the microscope for no other reason that John could discern except that it made Sherlock feel that he was being less sentimental about being so touched by the gesture.)

It was Mycroft who told Greg Lestrade, the day after Sherlock reappeared at Baker Street. This was not quite as he had arranged with Sherlock – his little brother had intended to inform the policeman in due course – but Mycroft had a timetable and Sherlock was currently... distracted.

So Mycroft kept his own timetable, although at the same time attempted to reassure the Sergeant (soon to be DI again, make no mistake) that the work he’d done on arresting Moran and his terrorist cell was exemplary and _almost nothing_ to do with the Holmes’s efforts.

Lestrade had taken the news with a quiet nod, nothing if not stoic and self-contained. Mycroft of course knew the policeman was not as calm as he appeared, but there would be time. _Tout comprendre rend très-indulgent_ , he thought would be the watchword. _To know all is to forgive all._ John Watson had certainly lived by it, where Sherlock was concerned, and Mrs Hudson appeared to subscribe to the same notion. Sherlock had, by his sacrifice after all, saved all their lives, and countless more besides.

When his surveillance saw Sergeant Lestrade knock on the door of 221 Baker Street, Mycroft wasn’t unduly alarmed at first. Mrs Hudson certainly seemed delighted to see him again. But there was something in the way Lestrade stood, the way he stepped up into the foyer, which set alarm bells ringing.

Perhaps slightly mishandled, then.

The door to 221 closed. Mycroft was already in his car, rushing to the scene.

**

John answered the door at Mrs Hudson’s yoo-hoo and so was taken by surprise when he saw Greg, stony-faced, behind her. Greg waited until Mrs Hudson had fluttered off downstairs before striding into the flat, pushing past John, who tried to block his path. John did not much like the look on Greg’s face.

“Where is he?” Greg stalked around the living room, glaring into all its corners, ignoring the fact that John – dressed in rumpled pyjamas, hadn’t even brushed his hair – had only just got out of bed. At four in the afternoon. _Rostered day off from the hospital then._

“I don’t…”

“Stop it. Don’t. Don’t you _dare_. I _know_. Mycroft Fucking Holmes told me, and I know he’s here.”

“Greg.”

“John. If you start, if you even _start_ to make excuses, so help me God, I will flatten you. How long have you known?”

John pursed his mouth but decided to go with the truth. “I worked it out, a week afterwards.”

Greg sucked in air through his teeth, clearly trying not to lose his temper. It was obviously too late, though.

“I couldn’t tell you, Greg. His life depended on secrecy. Our lives.” John’s mouth set in a grim line. “I can’t be sorry I didn’t tell you. It kept us all alive.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“He’s right, Lestrade. One whispered word and three bullets.”

Sherlock had appeared, likewise dressed as though only just arisen – though that was nothing new. Not as new as not being dead.

Lestrade’s brown eyes were dark with fury. “What, no bullet for you?” He took in the healing injuries to Sherlock’s face but seeing them only filled him with a bitter satisfaction. _Serves him right._

“Those three would have been the start of something much worse,” said Sherlock quietly. John noticed how Sherlock’s hands flexed, clenched, stilled.

“You arrogant fuck.”

Sherlock’s chin jerked up, defiant and defensive.

It was too much of a temptation. Greg snarled and launched, swinging.

But John, he had been at the knife’s edge, tense and with nothing to expend his anxiety on, for eighteen long months. He was moving almost at the same time, hauling Greg off his centre, stepping between harm and Sherlock, like he’d wanted to do for that year and a half, and like he’d done since that very first day; ever since meeting Sherlock.

Greg’s swing carried through, his rage diverting with savage good cheer to the man thwarting him from his original target. “I lost my _job_ because of you two bastards!” His fist collided with John’s face and John went down like a felled tree.

Next thing he knew, Greg was being shoved violently away, so that his spine collided painfully with the open door frame. Sherlock swooped down, gathering John up in his arms, inspecting the downed man’s eyes and skin. John groaned then patted feebly at Sherlock’s hands. “I’m fine. Fine.” He winced. “I’m okay, Sherlock.” He peered up at Greg, his expression full of weariness and hurt. Sherlock wouldn’t let him go, petting his hair gently, ghosting a hesitant kiss over the skin that was bound to bruise badly.

 _Well. So that’s how things are. No surprise, really,_ thought Greg.

The look Sherlock then bent on Lestrade, though: Greg had never seen anything like it. Not on Sherlock Holmes. Fury, outrage – and fear. God, the _fear_ in it. What on earth could that brass-balled lunatic possibly be afraid of? Or rather, the thought suddenly occurred to Greg, who was he afraid _for_?

“Because of _me_ you lost your _rank_ instead of your _life_ ,” snarled Sherlock, “Because of _me_ you didn’t get a _bullet_ in the _brain_. John kept my secret to keep your miserable moronic hide _safe_. You still have a job _at all_ because I asked Mycroft to _take care_ of you. While I had a year and a half of _hell_. _Absolute hell_. **_Without John_**.” He was unravelling before Greg’s eyes, control slipping, hands shaking, eyes luminous with… tears? Yes. _Fuck._

And then John was on his knees, shielding Sherlock, clutching tight to his shoulders and holding him close while Sherlock struggled for breath, reeling himself back in, putting up the walls. John pulled Sherlock’s forehead in to rest on his shoulder, hiding Sherlock’s expression from prying eyes, and rubbed his back soothingly. John glared at Greg, with one eye swelling, and didn’t speak a word. Not until Sherlock inhaled and let go a great breath and raised his head again. His expression was more the mocking one of old, though his skin was flushed, his eyes lined with exhaustion and more kinds of pain than Greg knew how to name.

A gentle tread fell on the stair, and Greg turned to see Mycroft Holmes ascending, umbrella tapping on each step.

“I appreciate,” Mycroft said mildly “That it was not ideal. None of this has been _ideal_ , but we had very little to work with. The fact that any of you still breathes is, one must surely see, a miracle of no small order.”

Greg looked from Mycroft to the two men on the floor. He swallowed. “Sorry. That I hit you.”

John managed to grimace good humouredly. “Might have done the same in your shoes,” he offered.

“You’re still bastards.”

“Nothing new there,” said John.

Greg looked at Sherlock, who seemed to relax now that John was up to bantering again. “Welcome back, I guess.”

Sherlock glared, but even Greg saw the tremor in his hands. John tried to conceal it for him by holding the hands in question, pressing them against his own diaphragm. Greg had once thought he’d never met anyone less in need of protection than Sherlock Holmes. Yet John had always done it, in the smallest, strangest ways. Tough love, sometimes, but yes, that’s what John Watson did. He looked out for Sherlock Holmes, no matter the cost.

Greg wondered what the last eighteen months had cost John Watson, and decided to be just a little bit ashamed of himself.

“You need some ice for that?” He nodded at John’s puffy eye.

“Be good. Yeah.”

Greg made himself useful in the kitchen. John was sitting at the table when he returned with the ice wrapped in a tea towel. John took the bundle and pressed it to the swelling with a faint, pained hiss.

Greg looked at Sherlock, who seemed calmer. “Bullet in the brain, huh?”

“A demotion seems paltry in comparison.”

“Yeah. Well. Finally convinced that cheating wife of mine to bugger off for good. So I guess that’s something.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “You’re welcome.”

Greg’s bark of a laugh broke the tension. Behind him, Mycroft’s umbrella tapped three times, loudly, on the floor.

Outside, the agent in the car relaxed against the seat, receiving the clear signal through the boss’s monitoring device that his services would not be required after all.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is home. Everyone is safe. Things should be getting better. But they aren't. Even the excellent sex and the new loving relationship with John won't stop the nightmares and the panic attacks. The things that haunt Sherlock are older than his year as a hunter. Much older. Also, Mycroft is an arse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help myself. Here's another chapter today, just because I can....

_Sherlock was one year old when Mycroft had to leave for boarding school. For the first few years, Mycroft would rush home every term and holiday break to play with his little brother. Read to him. Giggle with him. Give him cuddles when he cried, and nick cakes and sweets from the pantry for them to share. Father and Mummy didn’t like him spoiling the boy. They told him off for it and sometimes they were both punished by the withholding of supper or being separated – Mycroft banished to the library to read and write an essay on a selected topic, Sherlock to his room. Only if they caught him, though. Mycroft could be sly when required and he loved that little boy. But they caught him often enough._

_But when he was thirteen, and Sherlock six, Mycroft grew sick of it: the sneaking and the stupid holiday essays on Britain’s coal industry and going to bed hungry. He got sick of the demanding, loud little brat who followed him everywhere and didn’t let him have one damned minute to himself. So he told him. He said, “Don’t follow me around, you pest. Go ahead and cry. Like the little moron you are. See what Father and Mummy have to say about it. Go away. I’m busy.”_

_So Sherlock went away and stopped bothering him. Stopped speaking to him, unless he had to._

*

For the next two days in Baker Street, new routines were established. John and Sherlock spent a lot of quiet time together, or sometimes rather noisier times, long hours spent in bed exploring each other at last with moans and sighs and shouts and whispers.

On the third day, John had to return to work at the hospital. He spent several hours there restless and agitated, finally seeing the chief registrar to request time off for urgent personal business. His still ripely discoloured eye had certainly helped him in his sudden request. John came home early to find Sherlock in nothing but his dressing gown, pacing fretfully, chewing his nails to the quick, pretending not to be having an anxiety attack.

As John entered the flat, Sherlock pounced on him, pushing him against the sitting room wall and kiss-biting his lips, his throat, shoving at his jacket and shirt to suck bruises into John’s shoulder. John resisted his first impulse to, well, resist, and instead went still.

In moments, the ravishing ceased as Sherlock clutched tight to John’s shoulders, his face pressed into John’s throat. He was on the verge of hyperventilating. “I fell asleep. I woke up and you were gone,” he whispered frantically.

“I’m home now,” said John, running one hand up and down Sherlock’s back, the other threaded through his hair, fingers gently caressing his scalp, around his ears, over the crown (and John knew he was compulsively checking that all was well; that what he’d seen and what he’d dreamed over and over and over was truly not true). “I’m going to stay home for a while.” Four weeks, he’d told the hospital he needed. He had plenty of leave built up. He’d spent eighteen months doing every extra shift and every set of holiday hours available. Home hadn’t been a good place to be for a long time. Now it was the only place he wanted to be.

“I don’t need mollycoddling,” snarled Sherlock, but he was still affixed to John’s neck, licking at the spots where moments ago he’d been biting and bruising.

“No you don’t, you menace,” John agreed with a laugh, “But I do. If I stay home I won’t have to keep explaining my black eye to the staff. Or my patients.”

“I imagine ‘a policeman punched me in the face for lying to him’ doesn’t go down well,” Sherlock responded, relaxing enough now to trail light kisses up John’s face, ghosting his lips over the bruise.

“Not really,” John laughed, “Though I impressed the teenaged skateboarder who rode into a parked car.”

Sherlock snorted his contempt for any admiration ensuing from that kind of idiot. Then he huffed a surprised breath as John’s hands slid under the robe, around his hips, to curve over Sherlock’s arse. John’s palms caressed the skin, encouraging Sherlock closer with a soft touch. His hands dipped lower so he could dance his fingers over the top of Sherlock’s thighs, then came up again. John’s right hand steadied against Sherlock’s hip, the fingers of his left continued to dance, feathering over the cleft of Sherlock’s bum. Sherlock, hardening, leaned in closer to John to suck on his earlobe.

“Did you have lunch?” John asked breathily.

Not quite the endearment Sherlock was expecting. “I wasn’t hungry.”

“Mmm.” John tilted his head so that Sherlock could lick around his ear more easily. “I was, but I didn’t have time. I’ll meet you in the bedroom.”

Sherlock pulled back with an offended glare. “You’re going to _stop_? For a _sandwich_?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John responded, lightly pinching one of Sherlock’s nipples to make him gasp, “You don’t really have much respect for my imagination, do you?”

Any reply was lost as Sherlock took a moment to read the signs, and then he grinned. “I’m developing some. I prefer honey.”

“Good. The fig jam goes on you for _me_ to lick off. And I think I have some chocolate sauce somewhere.”

“The sheets will be a mess.”

“Count the many fucks I give about that, Sherlock. Count them twice. Done?”

Sherlock laughed and went to spreadeagle himself on the bed and wait. Then John arrived with jam, honey, chocolate sauce and also cream cheese and two bananas (the latter of which he claimed could be used with condoms, then peeled and consumed with perfect hygiene, and made Sherlock simultaneously fascinated and very keen to spread his legs further).

Sherlock was so sated at the end of two and a half hours that he decided not to tell John he was wise to the latter’s campaign to feed him up in whatever way possible. He rather counted on John trying this technique again.

*

_He gave up eating anything but bread and Marmite for a month once, at the age of fifteen, to see if anyone noticed._

_Nobody did._

_He still can’t abide the taste of the stuff._

*

Wheels turned. Greg Lestrade was recommended for promotion in the days after the arrest of Moran.

In those same days, the Met quietly finalised its new policy on employing consultants. That the particulars of it would enable the employment of a certain consulting detective, whose rumours of death had been somewhat exaggerated, was the result of a discreet amount of sly machinations from said not-quite-dead detective’s shadowy brother was never going to be known to the wider public. Sherlock would deduce it of course, and John, because even without any evidence (even of the kind Sherlock could gather) John just knew it was the sort of thing Mycroft would do, just to be contrary.

In those few days, too, stories began to come out that the late Sherlock Holmes had been much maligned. Well, that was the approach the tabloids took, ignoring, in their hypocritical way, their part in his downfall.

In fact, rumours began to circulate that Sherlock Holmes was not dead at all; that he had gone undercover for the government; that he was very possibly some kind of hero.

*

_He didn’t go away to school until he was ten. His father was disgusted with him. So was his mother and his brother. Their disgust didn’t make the bedwetting stop. Primary enuresis, it was called, and it affected five percent of boys his age. He looked it up. It had many causes, the physical ones relating to hormones and nerve maturation, and it seemed his body lagged in these areas. Irritating, but scientifically **common.** Knowing the facts didn’t make him feel less ashamed. Especially when, if he didn’t hide the evidence quickly enough, his Father would rub his face in the soiled sheets and mattress and call him a filthy, dirty boy, not fit for company at a school._

_He took to stripping the bed, bundling the sheets into the machine himself, and then hiding. He knew all the best hiding places in the house by then. He would crawl into the dark, small spaces and suck on his thumb and wait until they forgot or had something better to do. He did that until he was nine, and as disgusted with himself as the rest of them were. The treatment finally worked, or he finally grew out of it, he didn’t know which. Then they sent him away. To school, they said, but mostly – just away._

_*_

While the wheels turned for Lestrade and the Met, events at Baker Street were progressing less smoothly.

There were the nightmares, of course, but John had been expecting Sherlock to have those. Sherlock’s were surprisingly low-key affairs, less obviously debilitating than the ones John still suffered from time to time. Sherlock thought he was hiding the symptoms of them rather well, until John quietly suggested one morning that he might find therapy useful.

That was their first fight, and last for a long time. Sherlock snarled that he was fine, and John pointed out a dozen tiny tells: hand tremors, flinching at sudden noises, whimpers in his sleep. Sherlock shouted about John’s lack of correct observation, his lack of expertise as a psychiatrist, his developing taste for _interfering_ just because they were having sex now – and John set his shoulders and endured it for ten minutes until Sherlock shouted, “I’m not _you,_ I am _fine_ , I can reason my way through this, John _._ I can’t _talk to anyone, I’d have to tell them what I **did**.”_

And mortified, he fell utterly silent, his mouth half open in an _oh!_ of shock and distress, his eyes stricken. “I’m sorry. John, I’m sorry, I… you mustn’t pay attention. I slept poorly.” He swallowed.

John released his pent up breath. “After I was shipped out to the rehab hospital, I yelled at the nurses a lot, at the start. I didn’t have anyone else to yell at who mattered. I’m glad of that now. I was vicious enough to the staff.”

“John…I…” Sherlock sounded broken.

John smiled ruefully and took Sherlock’s hands in his. “All I mean is, I know what’s happening. Perhaps for once I know more than you do. And I know you didn’t mean it.”

Sherlock’s chest heaved with the effort to keep breathing, to keep a more extreme reaction locked in tight.

“And for the record, I know that whatever you did was… was _necessary_. I’ve done things too, you know. Necessary things. It’s not an excuse, it’s just… I’m not judging you, Sherlock. If you need to tell someone, you can at least tell me. I think it’d be healthier to talk to a therapist, and I’m not one, you’re right. But if you won’t consider that, please, Sherlock. You can talk to me.”

Sherlock wanted to. He wanted to. “No.” But he couldn’t. Not now.

Instead of arguing further, John lifted Sherlock’s hands and kissed his knuckles. “Okay,” he said.

Other things were also less than ideal.

There was the first time John went out to shop for groceries. Sherlock had tried to dissuade John for half a day beforehand, succeeding in distracting him with excellent sex, first in bed, then again in the shower, before the lack of breakfast supplies drove John onto the streets and up to Tesco’s.

Sherlock claimed shopping was tedious beyond bearing and sulked in the house.

He proceeded to text John every three minutes precisely, demanding to know where he was, what he was buying, why it was taking so long, and ending in a plaintive series of: _Come home, John. John, come home. I miss you, John. I love you. Come home. Why aren’t you home?_

John answered every text. _Shopping. Still shopping. STILL SHOPPING. I’m getting more bananas ;). I have French Vanilla ice cream. I found some caramel sauce to heat in the microwave – make a list of how best to use it. This bloke in front of me is getting a half crate of cat food and fourteen packs of batteries – any idea why? I’m coming home. I’m coming home now. I’ll be home soon. I miss you too. I love you too. Home soon. Nearly there. Breathe. Breathe, Sherlock._

Sherlock was hyperventilating when John got in. He grabbed John and dragged him to the sofa, and clung tight, face buried in John’s neck, and breathed and breathed in his warmth and his scent and his solid presence. Afterwards, he pretended he’d done nothing of the kind, playing his violin while John unpacked the mostly melted ice cream and the rest of the groceries.

They made interesting and messy use of the ice cream and caramel sauce anyway, and laughed at how much of it had got in their hair, and they were both all right for a while after that.

When John next needed to shop, Sherlock insisted on going with him. It was fine for a while, Sherlock simply tagging along and inspecting shelves, deducing customers and shop staff, until some sound, some change in the light, some indefinable _thing_ , made him go utterly still. He clutched John’s wrist, holding so hard that bruises showed by the time they got home. At the time, though, John simply stilled with him, all senses on the alert.

“Sherlock?”

“Shh.”

John shushed. He listened. He looked all around, searching for the danger.

Sherlock’s breathing became shallow, fast. That’s when John understood.

“Breathe, Sherlock,” he said, moving close to him, free hand on Sherlock’s back. “There’s nothing wrong.”

“They’re here,” Sherlock hissed, giving John a look of disgust, as though John should know this.

“You’re having a PTSD episode,” said John softly, “I know it feels real. I know you feel you’re in danger. You’re not.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” snarled Sherlock.

“Sherlock.” John leaned up, all in Sherlock’s face, and stared straight into those frightened, pale eyes. “Listen to me. I will fucking _destroy_ anybody who tries to touch you now. You know this. So tell me. If you can find the danger, tell me. I’ll put it right. I will bury whoever it is so deep it’ll take an oil drill to find them again. So deconstruct it for me. Tell me where the danger is.”

Then Sherlock began to deconstruct it, and his panic faded. His breathing levelled. “Nobody. There’s nobody.” Shame clouded his expression and he pulled away.

John seized Sherlock’s hand to keep him close. “Sherlock.” His tone was low, sharp, commanding. Sherlock halted in his attempt to leave, but wouldn’t look up.

“Look at me.”

Ordinarily, Sherlock could have resisted that tone. With ease. Now, he looked. The blue eyes that met his were stern but not heartless. They showed no hint of disgust or disappointment. Understanding was offered in that expression. Strength. Something to hold onto.

“You have lived on high alert for a year and a half,” said John calmly and clearly, tone firm rather than kind, but there was kindness in it still, “Hyper awareness is only to be expected. But you have an advantage I didn’t. You can reason past the reaction, with that brilliant brain of yours. Review the facts. It’s safe. Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured.

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Sherlock snapped with a little of the usual acerbity.

John grinned at him. “Of course you are. Remember that.”

Sherlock frowned at John, then laughed, and relaxed. “You’re not such an idiot, after all.”

John arched an eyebrow at him and stood away from him in the aisle. “If you think I’m going to demonstrate the interesting and varied uses of Swizzels Double Dip to you now, you are very much mistaken.”

“I have a Fry’s orange cream bar with which to bribe you,” Sherlock asserted.

“Damn,” laughed John, the Captain melting away completely, “You know my fatal weakness, Mr Holmes.”

Mr Holmes kissed Dr Watson in the middle of the Tesco’s aisle and refrained from telling him that he knew every single one of John’s weaknesses, catalogued both in order of effectiveness for getting his own way and also in order of potential for being actually fatal under a range of circumstances.

To prove a point, they finished the shopping and returned to Baker Street, and thereafter discovered online grocery deliveries. It seemed a better option for the time being.

John didn’t lose his temper until Mycroft came to visit.

John emerged from the shower to find Mycroft in the living room, sipping tea, and giving Sherlock a look that was a shade expectant under the bland surface.

Sherlock was pacing the room, clad in pyjamas and his robe, holding his bow in one hand and thwacking it absent mindedly against his thigh. Hard.

John stood in the kitchen, arms folded, and scowled at them.

“What does he want you to do?” John asked Sherlock darkly.

Sherlock spun on his heel, continuing his prowl across the room. “Moran had an accomplice. He got away.”

John glowered at Mycroft. “Then pick him up yourself, you lazy bastard.”

Mycroft’s elegant eyebrow lifted a fraction. “Doctor Watson, while your input is doubtlessly valuable on domestic matters – and I must thank you for the care you have given Sherlock since his return – this is hardly a matter within your sphere of influence, nor, truthfully, your skills. Subtle, you are not.”

John said nothing for a moment. In that moment of nothing being said, Sherlock froze and stared, captivated, while silent John seemed to fill the space with a towering yet devastatingly self-contained perfect storm of rage.

“Sherlock has done his part,” said John, voice clipped, low, absolutely steely, “And I think you have done enough in facilitating this notion that he had to do this alone.”

He saw Sherlock staring at him and gave him such a look of icy fury that Sherlock blinked. “Tell me you weren’t going to go haring off after this accomplice. Tell me you weren’t intending to go without me.”

“I…” started Sherlock, then frowned. “I am disinclined to go,” he conceded, “Certainly I’m not inclined to go without you.”

John’s nod was short, sharp, and heralded a brief march across the floor until he stood in front of Mycroft.

“You have agents enough, and we are not doing this. Get out.”

“You overstep your bounds,” said Mycroft, summoning up The Iceman, “As my brother’s _paramour_.”

Captain John Watson took the half cup of warm tea from the saucer beside the chair, upended it in The Iceman’s lap, and replaced the cup with a loud, ceramic clack. Mycroft recoiled then stilled, glaring at his brother’s... pet.

“This isn’t about needing Sherlock,” growled John, “This is you trying to exert control.” He glanced sideways at Sherlock, to find Sherlock assessing him with shining eyes. “Does Mycroft need you to catch this bastard?”

“Hardly,” said Sherlock, eyes fixed on John’s.

“Excellent. You, Mycroft, can get the fuck out of our home.” He stood back, giving Mycroft only enough space to rise in the direction of the door.

“So he is at _your_ beck and call now, is he?” Mycroft asked, cool and snide, as though his lap wasn’t soaked through with tea.

The sound of the bow thwacking against Sherlock’s leg was loud. “You’ll find Markoff in Scotland. But you know that.”

“Don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out,” said John.

Mycroft, with a sigh, picked up his umbrella and left.

Neither Sherlock nor John moved for a moment. Then Sherlock said, with a sneer: “You hardly thought I was at Mycroft’s _beck and call_ for that operation, do you?”

“I think you let him advise you on decisions about your safety,” snapped John back, “I think the two of you kept me out of that loop for eighteen months. I think he only told me as little as he could manage when I worked out you weren’t dead. I think I’ve spent enough fucking time on the outside, not having your back. How many of those scars could have been avoided if I’d been there? How much sooner would you have been back, if he’d let me come to you to help? Or if you’d thought to contact me yourself? How…” John’s lips closed and his jaw moved.

Sherlock examined the bow in his hands. “Sooner, perhaps. Or perhaps you’d have come with me, and died. Or Lestrade or Mrs Hudson would be dead. Perhaps I could only bear to go alone because I knew you would be safe.”

“It’s not my job to be safe, Sherlock. I’m not necessarily a big fan of safe.”

“I know.” Sherlock looked up. “I couldn’t do what needed to be done, however, unless you were. Mycroft made it possible for me to undertake the mission. To finish it. To come home.”

“Well, hooray for Mycroft, then,” said John, but he sounded only weary now, “But it’s not his job any more.”

“No,” agreed Sherlock, “I have a paramour for that now.”

John laughed, and Sherlock smiled, and they reached for each other; embraced.

Half an hour later, in bed, Sherlock was face down on the bed, crying out John’s name, with John balls-deep in his arse, clutching Sherlock’s thighs and slamming vigorously into him until they both came.

 _Still angry_ , Sherlock noted afterwards, John spooning him from behind and kissing his neck.

That night, Sherlock topped, teasing John for almost an hour before finally allowing him to come. John clearly didn’t mind; loved it, in fact, sprawled, grinning, across the bed and gazing adoringly up at Sherlock.

 _But I still have the control_ , thought Sherlock.

 *


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets back to The Work - but he keeps looking for Moriarty in the shadows; he almost has a panic attack at the scene. But John centres him again and Sherlock realises he needs to overcome this problem. He needs discipline. He needs to focus. And there was a thing he did for a while at uni that helped him do that. John will agree to it, he's almost sure.
> 
> (Some mild dubcon in this chapter, from an unconvinced John.)

_He broke his arm when he was ten, falling off the garden wall one term break. He’d spent the day down at the pond, keeping notes about the decomposition of the mallard he’d found there; noting the changing fragrance and texture of numerous plants at intervals from the corpse. He was also following the progress of raft of ducks (or a skein of ducks, as they could be called when in flight. He wasn’t convinced that the odd collective nouns for animals were anything but apocryphal, but he liked the idea of a murder of crows). He also took considerable notes on a couple of frogs and a family of foxes that had a burrow nearby. He’d been happy, coming home, his books full of notes and sketches. The vixen was pregnant. There’d be kits soon. He climbed the wall and walked along the top to revel in his feeling of accomplishment. Then Father had yelled at him from the front door, “Don’t skylark up there, you idiot!”, startling him, and down he went._

_“If you start crying,” Father said as they waited for the ambulance, “I’ll give you something to cry about. Idiot boy. If you can’t keep your balance you can at least not be a baby about it.”_

*

Some things didn’t change. Sherlock’s eating and sleeping patterns remained sporadic, though he always seemed happy to stay in bed with John for long hours, or slump against John on the sofa, or lie with his head on John’s lap, making rude comments about whatever John was watching, which only made John laugh. He rarely voluntarily made meals, or even tea, but he ate at least some of whatever John put in front of him, making only token complaints.

He sought touch often, though, stealing kisses – though it could hardly be said to be ‘stealing’ when kisses and hugs and touching of any kind were so freely given. Having discovered sex, he became an enthusiastic initiator of everything from hand jobs on the sofa to lingering, passionate explorations in one bed or the other.

The new phase of his relationship with John didn’t stave off the boredom, though. Physically sated he may have been, but he still craved intellectual challenge.

Sherlock had been home for three weeks when he made his first tentative foray into the Work again. It wouldn’t do to say he was diffident, but he lacked the strident, arrogant confidence of the past. He walked up to the police tape, John at his side, and nodded to Lestrade at the door to the crime scene, a suburban residence. Lestrade waved them in.

Sherlock ignored the looks; he was studiously deaf to the whispers and speculation. All he wanted was to show that he was the same as he had ever been. Brilliant. Unsurpassed. A great mind that could see the obvious yet unnoticed, and make connections where others failed to even spot facts.

And he was that, and he did that, but he was something else now, too. Not afraid. No. No.  Not that. But. Something.

The smell of the blood made him feel ill. He swayed slightly at the stench, and swallowed when John’s hand pressed against his elbow.

He swept the room with his gaze, noting the pulled threads on the curtains, the parrot feather in the fruit bowl. He saw the smudge of soot and the scattering of seed by the door. He saw the odd space in the blood spatter pattern, and noted the man’s missing wedding ring. All this and more.

And for a whole minute, none of it made sense. All the pieces were there, and then some, but for sixty seconds that ticked slow across a seeming millennia, it was all just _noise_.

The dizziness wasn’t merely from the smell of the blood. The vertigo was a response to the terrifying chasm in front of him. He was trying to make connections, but nothing made sense. No discipline to any of it.

Sherlock realised he was looking for Moriarty in the kaleidoscope. He expected to see that shape somewhere inside the puzzle. It was all he’d looked for, all he’d seen, for so long, and the absence of it was disorienting. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this crime scene, but no matter how he looked, that _more_ wasn’t there. Moriarty wasn’t there.

“Sherlock?” John, _sotto voce_.

And then like a centrifuge, the world lurched around him, spinning, then settled, and the absence of Moriarty, of immediate mortal danger, was flung away. The true pattern emerged. What was important, what wasn’t, and he could breathe again. He turned, hands sketching out the pattern of things in the air as he rattled off the salient clues. “Look for the cleaner. Teenager. Vegan. Working to support her way through university. This was very possibly self defence. She’ll have the parrot, and the hand-held blender she used on _him_.” He indicated the victim’s mangled fingers. “I wouldn’t be too sorry for him though. Sexual predator. Nasty bit of work.”

Sherlock swept away from the house, from the street, from the smell of the blood and from the looks he was getting, until three blocks away he sagged to his knees and hyperventilated while John rubbed his back.

Sherlock wouldn’t talk about it. He flagged a taxi and sat pressed to the door, aware of John’s looks of concern but unwilling to respond. He had to think. He had to be disciplined. He must not let that paralysis happen again.

 _Discipline_.

He hadn’t done that in a long time. Not since those early days when he struggled to learn focus from all the dizzying, nonsensical input of the world. Victor had suggested it and, unpleasant as some of it had been, it had worked. It had _worked_. And he _needed_ it. He needed to stop the flood of extraneous, unnecessary, even imaginary data. He needed this.

But would John…?

Sherlock glanced sideways at him and thought about John’s occasional voice of command. He _could,_ certainly. But _would_ he?

John saw him looking, and gave him a reassuring smile.

_Still angry about being left behind. Anger issues to work though. In a controlled environment. He… might. Yes._

At Baker Street, Sherlock ran up the stairs and locked himself in his room. He paced the floor, thinking, remembering, deciding.

He had one arm wrapped around his own ribs as he paced, the pad of the thumb on his other hand rubbing against his upper lip. Back and forth. Back and forth.

He ignored John’s increasingly loud knocks.

Then Sherlock realised that he was hugging himself and sucking on the thumb pad, half way towards that disgusting, puerile, humiliating habit of old.

It pushed him into the decision. He needed the discipline, clearly. He needed discipline and, yes, all right, punishment too, so that he could relearn how to focus, and John needed to express his unresolved anger issues, and this would work for both of them. It would address both their needs. John couldn’t possibly say no.

The loud knock had finally taken on a sharp, rapid rhythm that indicated John was deeply annoyed. “Don’t make me break down this door, Sherlock,” warned John through the wood, “Because I will. Sherlock. Will you please just talk to me.”

Sherlock took just a moment to fetch what he needed, then opened the door and looked at John, glaring up. The glare softened almost immediately, although his expression remained stern. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock stood there, tall and imperious and devastated, his arms behind his back.

“I know what I need, John. Talk isn’t it.”

The stern part of John’s expression melted away, leaving only the concern. “Tell me what happened.”

Sherlock swallowed, closed his eyes and swayed towards John. “Too… much. Too much input, not all of it relevant. I need…” He opened his eyes again. “I need you to do something for me, John.”

“Anything, Sherlock. You know that.”

Sherlock swallowed. He relaxed. “I need to focus,” he said, “But there’s too much…” he lifted one hand, while the other remained behind his back, and he waved at his temple, “Too much data. Too much from before. And I can’t let it go. I’ve been trying but I can’t.”

“What do you want me to do?” And there was his John, prepared already to do what he needed, without even knowing what it was.

Sherlock drew his other hand from behind his back and showed John the riding crop. John stared, uncomprehending.

“I need to surrender my autonomy to you. For a short while.” Sherlock was breathless with the statement, his eyes searching John for signs that this was too much to ask. Repugnant.

“Surrender your autonomy.” John eyed the crop like it was a serpent. Or a live bomb.

Context, Sherlock thought, might help. “When I was younger and had trouble sorting through the data, I... sought assistance. We were at university. Victor suggested that external stimuli might help to clear my mind. And it did, for a while.”

John still stared at the crop rather than at Sherlock. “You got a uni friend to whip you to help you clear your mind?”

“Not just whipping. _Obviously_.” Sherlock began to doubt this had been a good idea. He’d thought he could trust John with anything, but this was not…

John finally looked up at him. Concern, but not disgust, was in his eyes. Questions, but not doubt. “I can’t hurt you, Sherlock.”

“It’s a matter of discipline, John, and distraction from extraneous data. Something to ensure focus and obedience.” Sherlock winced at the last word. “It provided marvellous clarity, for a time, until Victor mistook it for meaning I needed external control _all_ of the time. It can’t work like that. I have to choose when I will surrender. And to whom. Someone I trust. I don’t trust many people, John, and none who would do this. After I stopped trusting Victor, I thought I didn’t need it any longer. But. But I need. I need to.”

Sherlock was never inarticulate. Never. It horrified him, and John seemed equally concerned by the tendency.

John placed one hand on the crop, then slid his palm up over the leather to Sherlock’s hand, gripping it tightly. He rubbed his thumb over Sherlock’s wrist.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeated.

“It’s only physical pain,” he said, “It helps me.”

“Sherlock…”

“I trust you, John. You’ll know what to do. You’ll know how much I can take. You’ll provide excellent aftercare. I need this, John. I need to focus again. To focus I need to clear my mind; surrender utterly. I haven’t done that in over 20 years, I haven’t needed it, but now I do. I need it. Please, John.”

John, frowning in a considering way, took the crop from Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock stood, still imperious, yet somehow quivering with supplication. John curled a fist along the leather, pulling the crop through the circle of his palm and fingers, then he looked slowly up at Sherlock again. A hint of Captain Watson appeared in the sternness of his eyes.

“You can understand why I’m reluctant, can’t you? God, Sherlock, if I got my hands on any of the bastards that hurt you while you were gone, I’d kill them. With my bare hands.” The light in John’s eyes was dangerous. This was the wolf inside the civilised man coming out; the spark of disciplined danger, one facet of many in the complexity of John Watson that Sherlock so loved, and had so missed.

“This is not the same,” Sherlock asserted, again mixing demand and plea, “This would be you, helping me. Please, John. I want to try. You display naturally dominating characteristics, notwithstanding our usual dynamic. Your comfort with and command of hierarchical structure is inherent as well as learned. I can trust you with this. So. Please. If you’ll employ the whip, a half dozen strokes will do it, and then we can have sex and you may provide aftercare, and everything will be fine. I’ll be _fine_.”

John closed his eyes again, opened them, and he was all Captain Watson now. He nodded.

“What are the parameters? Your safe word? Anything you need me to do, and that I mustn’t do?”

“Nothing,” whispered Sherlock, his voice gone weak with relief, “Anything. I trust you.”

“If you don’t have a safe word, I’m not doing this.”

“Marmite,” whispered Sherlock, “If you must.”

“If _you_ must,” John asserted, voice grim. “Promise me, Sherlock, you’ll use it if you need to. I’ve role-played with this sort of thing in the past, for some months as it happens, but it didn’t involve much in the way of pain play, and I won’t forgive myself if I hurt you, if I misread the signals. You have to help me to help you, here. I have to trust you, too.”

Sherlock nodded. Already he was feeling less tumbled and fraught. Already, he felt safer.

“I promise. Marmite. If I need to.”

“Good. Good man.” John stepped into Sherlock’s space and leaned up. He threaded the fingers of one hand into Sherlock’s hair and drew him down into a careful kiss. It was slow, sweet, and for all that John was shorter, he was completely in control of it. His hand guiding Sherlock’s head, his mouth and lips and tongue setting the pace and the intensity.

Sherlock shuddered slightly, the tension starting to leave him, and he sighed into the kiss.

“Naked.” It was a not quite a question, not quite a command, but it certainly was not tentative. John’s tone gave space for a counter offer, but Sherlock wasn’t interested in that. He would give John time to learn his part, to be more demanding. For now, Sherlock simply stripped. In moments, he stood naked in the doorway to the bedroom.

“On the bed.” That was more assertive.

Sherlock turned and crawled onto the edge of the bed. He crouched on all fours for a moment, then slowly lowered his shoulders, presenting his pale backside. He knew that John was not giving him explicit directives, waiting to see what position Sherlock chose. Cautious John. Wise John. This would work well.

He felt John’s hand at the small of his back, felt the palm smooth over his rump and down his thigh. Up again, then down the cleft and to his balls. Up once more.

“Tell me your safe word again.”

“Marmite,” said Sherlock.

“Good.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and waited. He grit his teeth. His incipient feeling of well-being was retreating, but he was used to that. It was how this thing worked.

The breeze of the moving riding crop made his skin goose-flesh a fraction of a second before the leather landed a stinging blow on his right arse cheek. Sherlock hissed in a breath.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock panted a little at the sting. It wasn’t so terribly painful. The shock was not so shocking. He’d asked John to do this, after all. It was a proven technique for clearing his mind. Only five more to endure, and this nothing as hard as Victor had liked to hit him. Five more blows to clear his mind and the fucking could follow, and then aftercare, and all would be well.

“I’m fine. Master.” He added the latter, recalling that it had helped with Victor. It established the dynamic. It made the surrender clear in his own mind, and Victor had liked it. “Please. Again.”

John’s hand brushed over the stinging welt. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and waited. In the quality of the silence was the raising of John’s hand. The whip hissed in the air as John brought it down to slap against his left cheek now. Sherlock gasped again. His breath hitched.

It was fine, it was fine, _it was fine_. The pain helped him to focus, and it wasn’t like those other things that had happened to him in the last year and a half at all. Even with Victor, this had always been the part to breathe through, to endure. Necessary to the surrender and the letting go. To get there, he had first to go through this. Proven. It was a proven technique.

John’s hand on his arse again, gentle, soothing. “Six, you say,” he said.

“Yes. Please. Master.”

A third blow came down, across the fattest part of his backside, cushioning some of the sting, and Sherlock hissed in another breath. He wondered if he should thank John yet, or wait until the end. The thanking had always been important to Victor, in those earlier trials.

“Sherlock…”

“Th-th-thank you. Master.”

“Don’t thank me. Stop. Relax.” John’s hand was on his backside, then the small of his back, then up Sherlock’s spine to the nape of his neck. John’s fingers stroked there for a moment.

“This isn’t working,” said John.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's idea of domination and submission isn't working for John - mostly because it clearly isn't working for Sherlock either, no matter what Sherlock says. So for this one night, they're going to try it John's way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate the rimming scene to Atlinmerrick...

“Master…”

“Sherlock, no. You are more tense than before, and not the slightest bit aroused. You don’t enjoy this. You don’t _like_ this. What on earth made you think you did?”

Sherlock flinched, scowled, and feeling horribly exposed began to curl in on himself, clutching at the sheet to hide his nudity.

“Sherlock, please. It’s okay.” John’s hand continued to stroke the back of his neck while he spoke soothingly, “You’re okay. But I can’t keep hurting you.” The catch in John’s voice made Sherlock look at him. John looked… he looked like Sherlock felt. Sick and sad.

“It’s how it works, John,” said Sherlock stiffly, “It’s how it worked with Victor. The whip, the sex, the aftercare. It clears my mind.”

John took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled. “At which point in this process did your mind start to clear?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “When Vi…” _When Victor had punished me and fucked me and was happy with my submission_ , _and then he'd hold me_ , he’d nearly said. _After that._

Good Christ, had he never really thought about that before?

“This is how it worked with Victor,” he said again, only the certainty had gone from his tone. John’s fingers were in his hair now, petting his scalp, and Sherlock leaned into the touch before realising he was doing so.

“I’m not Victor, Sherlock.”

“Obvious,” Sherlock muttered, irritated.

“There are other options.”

"No,” said Sherlock grimly, drawing away, “ _These_ are the options, and you have _issues_ to express, about my leaving, how I left, how long I took to came back. You’re still angry. You need to… punish…” He petered out, unwilling to put it into words how he knew what John wanted. _You need to punish me. I need to be kept in line. Victor made that very clear._

“I really don’t.” John was patting Sherlock’s hair and neck again, shifting to sit beside him on the bed. John ran a hand down Sherlock’s shoulder and arm and Sherlock, shuddering, allowed it.

“I need to surrender, John, and you need to take charge,” he said stubbornly, “This is how it works.”

"You misunderstand.” Sherlock glared. “No, you do,” insisted John, “You don't understand this as well as you think. No. Stop. Quiet.” The commands were gently said but firm and despite himself, Sherlock found the protests dissolving from his tongue. Unspeaking, he looked to John.

“If you need this, then we're doing it. Trying it, anyway,” said John carefully, his fingers stroking Sherlock’s face now, “If you want, I'm your dom, for tonight at least. But that means as your dom, I have my own rules too."

Sherlock let out a shuddering breath.

“If it doesn’t work, we can negotiate something else. But please. Let me try this my way. I can’t do it the other. I’m not going to hurt you again, no matter how much you think you need it. I can’t, Sherlock.”

Another shuddering breath, and Sherlock nodded. “All right,” he said, tone doubtful yet pliant.

“Okay. First thing.” John gently pulled the rucked sheet away from Sherlock. Once it was untangled, he pulled it up over Sherlock’s shoulders for a minute. Sherlock instantly felt less exposed, safer. “You need something for the welts,” John said, “I’ll be right back.”

John disappeared briefly, and Sherlock could hear him in the bathroom, searching the cabinet. John returned with a tube of Hirudoid cream. “All right. Hush now. You’re okay.”

Nonsense words, utterly pointless, but Sherlock found the tension draining away.

John lay on the bed next to him and once more pulled the sheet away. He ran his hands over Sherlock’s arms, his back, his ribs, and gently coaxed Sherlock to roll over. Tucked against John’s torso and hip, one leg partially overlapping John’s, Sherlock submitted wordlessly while John applied soothing cream to the welts. The touch was aloof to start with, and Sherlock’s shoulders grew tense again, but before long, John’s hands were less clinical, more sensuous.

“There,” John murmured, “Better?”

Sherlock mumbled something.

“You need to tell me, Sherlock. Does that feel better?”

“Yes, Master…” Sherlock managed.

John’s hands continued to stroke, away from the welts now, over Sherlock’s thighs. “I’m not your master,” he said softly, “You’re not my slave. If you want to, you can call me Sir. But not master. Do you understand?”

John’s touch was soft and reassuring, never lifting away, and the momentary pang Sherlock felt at the rebuke ebbed away almost instantly.

“Yes. Sir.”

“Good man. Good.”

Sherlock sighed at the little praises.

“I need to wash my hands. I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock listened as John walked away. He listened to the water running, the sound of John lathering soap on his hands, rinsing them, drying them. He listened to John coming back into the room, and the tension that had been creeping up subsided again.

John got back into bed with him. “Up here now. Come on.” John gently tugged and nudged at Sherlock until Sherlock lay along John’s side, head nestled under John’s chin, arm tucked between them. John’s left arm circled Sherlock’s back and bent upwards so he could bury his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, while his right arm stretched down to Sherlock’s hip. His strong, square hand brushed against the sensitive skin there, and then moved. Along ribs, to Sherlock’s chest. His nipples. The pads of John’s fingers swept, soft but repetitive, over the pebbling skin.

Sherlock leaned up to kiss John. John pressed a light kiss to Sherlock’s lips and then to his forehead. “Settle now,” he said, Captain Watson evident in the tone, “You need to lie there while I look after you.”

“John…”

“No, Sherlock, not John.” A note of warning.

“Sir…”

“That’s right. Good lad. Now spread your legs for me a little.”

Brow creased in puzzlement, Sherlock did as he was told. John’s hand rubbed over his chest and his belly, until his fingers carded through the tight curls at his groin. Slowly, John cupped Sherlock’s thickening erection and pressed. Sherlock gasped softly.

“Good lad. There’s my good lad. No, Sherlock. Stay still,” he said as Sherlock tried again to kiss him, “I’m fine. This is for you. Shh. Spread a little more. There you go.” He initiated the kiss this time, leaning down to kiss Sherlock’s mouth, to flicker his tongue against Sherlock’s lips. “That’s it. So good.”

John’s hand dipped down to brush over Sherlock’s scrotum, back up to lightly rub the shaft, down again. Up once more, where John gathered the pre-cum that began to leak from Sherlock’s slit. He rubbed his thumb over the crown a few times, soft and coaxing, and Sherlock’s hips flexed towards him.

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock forced himself to stillness.

“You don’t have to stop. I want you to move for me.” John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock and pulled gently. “Move for me.” His tone contained an order.

Sherlock moved, reluctantly.

“Good lad. That’s my good boy. Come on.”

Encouraged, Sherlock thrust again.

“That’s lovely. That’s right. Again.”

Sherlock pushed again, and moaned.

“That’s it. I want to hear you. Again.”

Rumbling a low groaning sigh, Sherlock thrust into John’s moving hand again. He felt John’s lips on his forehead.

“Look at me now,” said John, and Sherlock, sloe-eyed, looked up. John had an odd look on his face. Sweet, almost, but stern too. That was the expression of someone who was making the decisions. Sherlock liked it.

“Spread a little more for me. That’s it.” John’s hand, wet with pre-cum, slid over Sherlock’s balls until one finger pressed over Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock gasped and thrust, and moaned, and he looked to John to see if that was all right.

John kissed Sherlock’s mouth softly, slipped his tongue across Sherlock’s lip. At the same time, the tip of his finger pressed against the warm, tight hole. Just when Sherlock was about to whimper, John withdrew and simply circled his finger over the puckered skin.

“Good lad,” said John, “Good boy.”

He brought his hand back up to encircle Sherlock’s shaft, and began rubbing again, his fingers and palm gathering the velvety skin, moving it up and down the hard flesh. Every few strokes, his thumb would swipe over the crown and Sherlock would groan wantonly. He’d thrust, and John would tell him how good he was, so he’d thrust again.

“That’s lovely,” said John, a breath against his ear, “Keep going like that. No, Sherlock. Hands down. Just this. Just fuck into my hand. That’s good. That’s what I want you to do. Keep doing that. Good lad. You don’t have to do anything but that. You’re doing just what I asked of you. That’s perfect. You’re perfect. You are so good. So good. Keep going, keep…”

“I… I…I…”

“Ask me.”

“P-p-please, sir, let me, let me, sir, let me…”

“Come for me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock did, back arching as John stroked him with one hand, pulling Sherlock close to his body with the other. Remembering the instruction not to use his hands on John, Sherlock clutched into the sheets at the intensity of the orgasm. He subsided, trembling, to feel John’s arm holding him close, John’s mouth pressing kisses to his cheeks and jaw, John’s right hand still held cupped over his softening cock.

“Good lad, good lad,” John was saying.

Sherlock felt faintly ridiculous for being praised for an orgasm, but mostly he felt sated, and warm, and good. He felt good.

He reached over to run his hand over John’s hip, towards John’s own erection.

“Not yet,” said John, capturing Sherlock’s hand and pushing it down, “I’m all right for now.”

Sherlock frowned. “I…”

“I’ll let you know when,” said John, kissing his brow, “I’m in charge here. I’ll tell you when.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and relaxed into John’s arms.

For a little while he lay there, breathing deeply, feeling safe. But then his breathing quickened _. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how it… it wasn’t right. Not yet. Close but not yet. This wasn’t what he…_

“Hush,” said John, and Sherlock’s frown deepened.

“John.”

“We’re not done yet, Sherlock. Unless you think we are. Do you want me to stop?”

“Not done?”

“No. We’re not done. I’m not done. This was undoing the beating, and I’m never hitting you again. Is that clear?”

“Yes, J… sir.”

“Good lad.”

Again, the simple praise, and Sherlock felt himself relax a fraction.

“Do you want me to continue?”

“Yes, please, sir.”

John had retrieved a pyjama shirt from the floor and used to wipe down Sherlock’s belly and crotch. He was brisk, careful with Sherlock’s oversensitive skin.

“I want you to get up now, Sherlock. Can you do that?”

Sherlock automatically moved to rise. He needed John’s steadying hand to help him initially, but then he sat on the edge of the bed. He winced at the pressure on his welts.

“Stand up. There you go.” John put a pillow on the floor. “Now kneel. Right there. Good lad.”

Frowning, Sherlock knelt on the pillow. John fetched Sherlock’s robe from the end of the bed and draped it over Sherlock’s shoulders to ward off the cold. John rose, his erection hot and hard, level with Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock opened his mouth automatically.

John ran his fingers along Sherlock’s jaw with a smile. “Not yet.”

“J.. Sir. Don’t you want me…?” He meant to add a verb – _to suck you? To lick you? To touch you?_ – but he was stuck. Did John not want this? Did John not want sex with him like this?

“I do. Christ, I do, but not yet. I set the pace, here. I’m the one in charge at the moment. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“You mustn’t worry.” John slipped his thumb into Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock latched onto it, sucking enthusiastically. John laughed, but the sound was warm, not mocking. He withdrew his thumb.

“All right. Just a little,” he said.

Sherlock opened his mouth again and John held his own cock between his fingers, rubbed it firmly against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock’s tongue flicked out, seeking the heat and wet, and John pushed into Sherlock’s mouth a fraction. Sherlock suckled on the head and John made a sweet, helpless noise. He withdrew then, and Sherlock looked up to see John, flushed and grinning.

“Good lad,” said John again, a little hoarsely, “When we do this, it’ll be _terrific_. When I say. All right?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Now, I need to you stay here for a moment. Don’t move. Don’t touch yourself. Just kneel here and wait for me. I’ll be back in a minute.” He considered it, “Up the stairs and back, I need to get something, so four minutes. I want you to stay calm, keep your mind clear. If you have to think, think about what just happened.”

Sherlock’s brow creased in a little frown again.

“No, don’t analyse it. I just want you to remember it. My arms around you. My hands on you, with your legs spread wide for me, just like I asked. How pleased I am that you did as I asked. How it felt when you came, and I kissed you. Can you do that?"

“Yes, sir.”

“Good lad.”

John disappeared and for a time that felt like no time, Sherlock knelt on the pillow. His mind became restless, but he did as John asked. He remembered the sensation of John’s arm around his shoulders and fingers in his hair; John’s hand on his belly, and his cock, over his balls, against his anus.

He grew hard again, but remembered that John had said not to touch himself. Instead, he remembered the sensation of John’s hand sliding up and down his shaft, and it was like feeling it again. He grew even harder.

He remembered coming, every detail. The feeling of fingers on his skin, his own balls drawing up tight against his body, the way his breath came faster, and how John pulled him close and held him, and took care of him, and how he’d had to do nothing, had to endure nothing, had to choose nothing but to submit willingly to those strong hands on him that wanted nothing in return, nothing but for Sherlock to do what he was told and then…

“Good lad,” said John’s approving voice, and his fingers were tangled in Sherlock’s hair, rubbing against his scalp, and Sherlock gasped as though he might come again.

Footsteps passed him, and he felt the warmth of John’s body as he settled on the bed in front of him.

“Open your eyes.”

Sherlock opened them, to see John, dressed again. He frowned. John pressed his fingers to that crease between Sherlock’s brows.

“You said you needed to choose when to surrender, because it’s not all the time. So this is how we’ll do it.” John gestured to his clothes – fatigues and a drab green vest. He lifted the dog tags from around his own neck and settled them over Sherlock’s. Sherlock looked down at the circular tabs against his bare skin.

"If this works for us,” said John, “I'll get you your own set. For now, these are mine. While you wear them, you are Private Holmes. I am Captain Watson, Captain or Sir. Do you understand?"

"Yes, John."

"No, soldier."

"...Yes sir."

“Any other time, it’s just us, as usual. If you want this, you need to ask for Captain Watson. Or, if you want to, you can put on the dog tags and kneel here at the bed. I’ll know what you mean. Is that all right?”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes. Captain Watson. Sir.”

Captain Watson brushed his thumb over Private Holmes’s lower lip. “Good lad. Now. We have to have rules. We can negotiate them, of course, but this is how I want to start. I’ve already told you the first rule – I am not your master and you’re not my slave. I am your commanding officer, which means I give the orders but I am also responsible for your care. The unit's wellbeing is my business, and you and I are the members of this… well, brigade’s too big for the two of us, isn’t it. All right. You and I, we are the Baker Street fire team. ‘Unit’ will do, for this. Your role is to obey the orders given and to be mindful of the unit's wellbeing, including  your own. You do not have to follow orders blindly. You may make requests and seek clarification. The final decisions are mine, however, and I will respond as I see fit. You may use your safe word at any time, of course, and whatever we’re doing will stop. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Captain."

“Your safe word?”

“Marmite.”

"Good. I have one too. It’s clarinet. We'll decide tomorrow if we want to continue with this arrangement. For tonight, I am in control. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Sherlock was beaming. His eyes shone. _Perfect. This was perfect._

"Good man."

“And what about punishment, Sir?”

The Captain frowned at him. “I’ve already told you, I’m not hurting you again. That’s not how this unit operates.”

“But Sir…”

“If discipline is required, it will be meted out. It will not take the form of corporal punishment. I won’t be using sex in any form as a reprimand, either. I don’t do that, Private.”

Sherlock thought at first he’d be disappointed, but the sudden feeling of relief was overwhelming.

“Thank you, Sir.”

John leaned forward to kiss Sherlock’s forehead. He kept his thoughts about this Victor bastard to himself, for now. Instead, he kissed Sherlock and then leaned back on the bed.

“Private, I see you are in state of intense arousal,” he nodded at Sherlock’s erection. “What were you thinking about?”

“You, sir. Making me come, sir.”

“And you’re ready again? Impressive.”  John reached down to pull firmly at Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock moaned and panted.

“Stand up, soldier.”

Sherlock rose. Without thinking about it, he stood at a sort-of attention; not military grade but a good approximation. His erection jutted up, flushed a gorgeous rosy pink.

John took Sherlock’s robe and parted it, pushing it back over Sherlock’s hips. He leaned forward and kissed the crown of Sherlock’s cock, then slipped his mouth over it, suckling. Sherlock keened briefly and his hips jerked. John pulled off. He smiled up at Sherlock.

“Lovely,” he said, “Off with the robe and onto the bed. On your stomach.”

Sherlock let the robe fall to the floor and he crawled onto the mattress, stomach first. John’s hands caressed his back and bum and thighs.

“Lift up onto your knees. Good lad.”

Sherlock obeyed, his mind humming now with contentment. He heard the lid of a bottle of lube crack, smelled the faint scent of it, then heard the fluid squeezed into John’s hand. John rubbed his palms together, warming the lube up, and then one, then two, fingers slid into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse and stroked the skin.

“You like this,” said John, “Fingers.”

“Yes, sir,” breathed Sherlock.

“And you know what I like?”

“Being sucked off, sir.” And by excellent good fortune, Sherlock very much liked sucking John off.

“That’s right. Good lad.” John’s fingers swirled and stroked. The pad of one finger pushed against Sherlock entrance, and Sherlock gasped and pushed back into it.  John increased the pressure, until that finger breached the tight hole. Sherlock pushed further back, forcing the finger in to John’s first knuckle. He gave a breathy, satisfied sigh.

Then John pulled out, circling his finger around the wrinkled skin again.

“I’m going to fuck you with my fingers,” said John, “And I want you to suck me off. So you have a choice. Which one first?”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, mouth panting open, and licked his lower lip. He smiled. “Please Captain Watson,” he said, sultry and low, “I want you to come in my mouth, please sir.”

John crawled up the bed and lay back, head on the pillow. He unbuttoned and unzipped the fatigues and pushed them down, before reaching into his pants, the front of them sticky-damp now, and pulling out his hard cock, the head slick with pre-cum.

“I was really hoping you’d say that, Private Holmes.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “Make it an order.” He hesitated. “Sir.”

John’s eyes were sparkling as he grinned. “Soldier, get between my legs and provide some relief to your commanding officer. That’s an _order_.”

With efficiency that in no way hid the genuine eagerness behind it, Sherlock kneeled between John’s spread legs and placed his large hands on John’s thighs. He bent his head to kiss, then lick, then swallow John’s prick. His original thought – that he should draw it out, make this last – was dismissed as John panted and moaned and thrust up into his mouth. His fingers rested on Sherlock’s head, not guiding or pressing, but stroking through the curls, transmitting the pleasure of the blow job with little spasms and strokes that mimicked the action of Sherlock’s tongue and mouth on his cock.

“Christ, yes, that’s perfect. God yes. Keep going. God. Oh fuck, that thing, with your tongue, again. Do that agai…aaaaah, _Jesus_ ,” John’s language devolved into groans and gasps as Sherlock swallowed him to the root, the back of his throat flexing around the head of John’s hot, heavy cock, his tongue pushed against the underside of the shaft, brushing against the vein. Then: “Oh god, god, beautiful, you’re so good, so good, my god, now, ah, nghh, pull back, that’s it, kiss the end of it, lick it, right there, fuck that’s good, good lad, my good lad, don’t stop, now suck me, suck harder, use your tongue… fuck, yes, yes, yes like that, keep going, keep going, don’t stop, don’t slow down, I don’t want to slow down, suck me, fu—u-uck, soldier, _that’s an order_ , please, fuck, do it, suck me, suck me like that, su… oh oh **_oh_** fuck **_yes_**!”

Sherlock sucked and swallowed and rode out the bucking of his Captain’s hips until the fingers in his hair patted him.

“Christ, that was fantastic. Fucking brilliant. Pull off now. Before I pass out.”

Sherlock pulled off, slowly, lips sliding over his Captain’s still plump but softening cock. His Captain gasped, giggled, then drew Sherlock up to lie along his body and kiss him.

“You taste like me,” he whispered into Sherlock’s mouth after the first long kiss, “You’re mine, now.”

“Yes sir,” agreed Sherlock languidly, and kissed his Captain again.

“How’s your backside?” The Captain’s hands caressed the flesh in question. Sherlock had forgotten about the welts.

“Needs your fingers up it, sir.”

“Is that so, soldier?”

“Yes, please, Captain.”

“On your hands and knees, then.”

Sherlock rolled off his Captain’s chest and knelt as instructed, arse in the air. A warm hand stroked his presented backside, softly tracing the lines the whip had earlier marked on him. He heard his Captain kicking off his pants and trousers, and then felt soft kisses on the small of his back.

“I’m very pleased with you, Private Holmes,” said the Captain warmly. “Obeying instructions so well. Very pleased.” A kiss was placed at the top of the cleft of his arse. “I want to do something special for you. Would you like that?”

Of course Sherlock knew what he meant. They’d tried it in their John-and-Sherlock bed. It reduced John to a gibbering, pre-cum-leaking wreck and the first time, he’d come untouched. Sherlock hadn’t tried it yet. He’d not felt, before, ready to find out if it would reduce him to the same degree.

“I should bathe, sir.”

“I’ll look after that,” said the Captain, “If you want it.”

“Please, sir.”

“Tell me that you want it.”

“I want you to lick my arsehole, sir.” In fact, he was almost breathless with wanting it.

He heard the Captain open the drawer, take out the packet of wet wipes they kept in there for other occasions. He listened as the Captain tore one free and felt the cool cloth against his rear end.

“Spread your legs, there’s a good lad.”

Sherlock lowered his shoulders, spread his knees wide, and gasped at the touch of the damp wipe against his skin, from the top of his cleft and over his anus to his balls.

“You’re a good lad,” repeated the Captain, and Sherlock’s legs spread further as he sighed at the words, “Such a good lad for me. So good. I’m going to lick your arse for you. Would you like that?”

Sherlock only moaned.

“I want to hear you, soldier.”

“Yes, sir, I would like that sir.” Sherlock’s breath was getting shallower, panting. Another wipe was torn from the packet and swiped over his skin, lingering over the tight indent of his anus. A third one, but the Captain used this to clean his own hand. Then a discarded T-shirt completed the task, taking away most of the residue that would certainly taste bitter.

“Tell me what you’d like me to do, Private Holmes.”

Sherlock moaned and managed to gather his thoughts for long enough to say: “Please, Captain Watson, fuck me with your tongue and fuck me with your fingers and let me come, please, sir, please…”

Captain Watson spread Sherlock’s cheeks with both hands and placed an open-mouthed kiss against that small, tight pucker of skin, making Sherlock forget all his words, and as that ever-busy tongue flicked out over the wrinkled hole, Sherlock keened a little and shoved his arse further in the air. He could feel his Captain’s smile against that secret, sensitive skin, and tried to speak, to say _please, sir, more_ , but then his Captain gave him more, first with the flat of his tongue, and then with his tongue curled into a point, probing the entrance, soft and hot and insistent.

For long minutes, his Captain kissed and licked and fucked him with that incredible tongue, that wonderful mouth, dipping down sometimes to lick his perineum, his balls, sucking lightly at his sac. He could feel his cleft dripping wet with saliva, and his cock leaked onto the bedding, and he tried to form sentences and couldn’t.

Finally, his Captain began to rub gently at his damp anus, then press his finger in. To the first knuckle. To the second. He withdrew his finger to kiss and lick again. Then returned to fingers. Sherlock pushed against the sensation, no thought in his head now but to feel those fingers hit there, just _there_ , that _perfect spot_ …

Captain Watson held him by the hips sometimes, by the thighs at others, or spread his arse further open when he wanted to lick deep.  His Captain had two fingers in him now, working him firmly, gloriously, perfectly. Sherlock pumped his hips back into it, because he knew, by the pressure on his skin, and the way the Captain petted his thighs, that the Captain liked it when Sherlock was noisy, when he abandoned himself to the stimulation. He could lose himself, and it was all right, because his Captain would take care of him. He was safe, here. Safe.

He felt the Captain’s lips move against his lower back and in a slow daze he heard the words: “You’re such a good lad, so good, that’s beautiful, perfect, make all the noise you want, good lad. Good. That’s perfect. Look at you. That’s it. On my fingers, there you go, push back, oh that’s hit the spot, hasn’t it? Do that again. Nice. Lovely. All right.”

And then, the Captain’s wonderful, agile, clever fingers still inside him, stroking that blissful place over and over, the Captain’s other hand reached under him, between his legs, and took hold of his aching cock. Began stroking.

“So good,” the Captain murmured, “There’s my lad. Take as long as you like, but you don’t have to wait. Come when you want to.” His hand shifted, so the heel of it brushed lightly over Sherlock’s tightened balls, the fingers caressed the head as well as the shaft. The Captain dropped a kiss on his back again, and then there were fingers in his arse, a tongue on his balls, a hand on his cock, and Sherlock yelled and came and came and came, and was still pulsing as he collapsed on to the mattress.

He lay there panting, mind nothing but white noise, for an eternity before he felt an arm across his shoulders, hands carding through his hair.

“Beautiful,” said his Captain, “So good. You were so good for me, my lad. So good.”

He bonelessly submitted while his Captain used wipes and a towel to clean his backside, reapplied cream to the welts, then turned him over and cleaned up his belly and crotch. Sherlock, eyes closed, hummed a single happy note while the bed moved – the Captain cleaning himself up too – and the duvet was thrown on the floor. The feel of cotton on his skin indicated a sheet had been pulled over him.

Then his body was tugged up, and he went willingly, wordlessly delighted at his Captain’s strength, arranging him on the bed and against the Captain’s body.

The Captain pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’m very proud of you,” said Captain Watson, “You’re such a good lad. My good soldier.”

And fingers brushed across Sherlock’s cheeks, leaving wet trails on his skin. Sherlock didn’t understand why that should be so, but it didn’t matter. He was loved, he was safe, and for the first time in a long time, the responsibility for… for everything… was someone else’s. Someone he could trust. And he trusted his Captain with more than his life. He trusted Captain Watson with his vulnerability.

Sherlock’s last thoughts before he fell asleep were simply that he had never felt so unburdened; so _relieved_.

*


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This new style of submission and domination seems to work for them both: but Sherlock's panic attacks haven't gone and he still has old habits and expectations from the past dynamic. It's slowly becoming clear that there's more to Sherlock's needs than either John or Sherlock fully understand yet.
> 
> And Sherlock still has secrets.

_His parents never hit him. Never spanked him. Never thrashed him. He learned instead that silence can be bruising, that not being seen was like suffocation, and that to be untouched by caring hands was as good as a blow._

_And he learned that he deserved every lack._

_And then he learned to fight that notion with noise, with spectacle, with eschewing touch of any kind._

_At university, with Victor, when blows finally came, he hated them, but they were all he had. The blow, the fucking and then maybe, once Victor was happy, a kinder touch. It seemed a logical path, for a time. But it wasn’t enough, and he knew it, so he put a stop to it. Even at nineteen, he had at least that much care for himself, for the mostly forgotten notion that perhaps he did deserve better after all._

*

John woke up alone, but his dog tags were a warm pool of metal on his skin. Warm and… wet? He fingered the tags and rubbed his thumb over them. Damp. Slick with – he sniffed – saliva. They’d been in someone’s mouth; not his, he was very nearly one hundred percent certain. Only recently left behind, too, or they’d have dried and cooled by now.

He slipped the tags over his head, got up and pulled on his dressing gown. In the kitchen, Sherlock was at the table, at his microscope. He was in only his pyjama bottoms, and he was humming. Mozart, John thought.

“Morning,” said John, tentatively.

Sherlock beamed at him, “Good morning, John. Sleep well? I certainly did. Magnificently, in fact.”

“So it… helped, then?”

Sherlock’s expression sobered briefly, and his next smile was warm rather than exuberant. “Very much. Thank you.”

“Okay. So. No need for these again?” John plucked up his tags by the chain and dangled them, then dropped them against his chest again. He was maintaining a nonchalant air. With effort.

Sherlock considered. Certainly he felt better this morning. More focused, less frazzled. But for all that, he was aware that he was avoiding open windows – he’d drawn the curtains almost as soon as he came into the living room. As a test, he imagined John returning to work today. Being gone all day. Not calling every five minutes. Not texting. Sherlock noted the rise in his pulse and breathing rate, then opened his eyes to see John regarding him with concern.

“There… might be need again. A high likelihood of it, in fact.”

John pursed his lips briefly, then nodded. “Here.” He pulled the tags off and handed them to Sherlock. “Keep them for now. You know what to do if you need them.”

Sherlock’s hand closed over the tags. He’d woken up cuddled close to John’s chest this morning, suckling softly on the tags that had ended up in his mouth. Something that last night’s session was meant to have dealt with. But there was no doubting that, with the tags back in his grip, a tension he hadn’t been fully aware of seemed to unknot in his belly.

“Thank you, John,” he said, feeling the warm and still slightly spit-damp metal in his palm. “I will report to the Captain, if necessary.”

John just smiled and leaned over to kiss Sherlock on the lips, no trace of command or control in the action. “Whatever you need, love,” he said, then wandered into the kitchen to make tea and toast.

Several days passed in their previous routine. Walks and chemical experiments; scouring the paper and the email for worthy cases. Fantastic sex without the need for any formal surrender or control. Sherlock seemed more inclined to bedroom assertiveness, perhaps, to make it clear that the arrangement with the dog tags and the Captain was not the _status quo_ , but he was open to suggestions, particularly any pertaining to food-related sex. John had some marvellous ideas on the improper uses of Brighton Rock, popping candy (and a strangely brilliant Sainsbury’s popping candy ice cream), strawberries and cream, and, his personal favourite, mangoes, although the Sundae ran a close second.

(The Sundae consisted of the only marginally hygienic use of an unpeeled, condom-encased banana, a can of whipped cream, generous amounts of a fancy chocolate and raspberry sauce from Harrods, and what John vulgarly insisted on called A Bag Of Sticky Nuts. Mrs Hudson had finally learned to stop commenting on how frequently the sheets required laundering these days, having declared that if the two of them wanted to eat in bed they ought to at least use serviettes. John had retreated to a parade ground attention and stared at the eaves while Sherlock had laughed till he cried before Mrs Hudson had finally twigged and shook her head at them, muttering ‘at least you’re both getting some nutrition into you’ and fleeing, having at last learned how to blush.)

But there were off days, especially after John’s leave was up and he arranged a slow return to work, only taking one or two shifts a week.

There were days when, outside Baker Street, Sherlock jumped at shadows and would find himself pressed against a wall, scanning his surroundings for snipers or garrotters, dangers in the crowd that he would have to deconstruct, proving to himself and to John that no real danger existed.

Days when, if Sherlock lost sight of John while he was out, his pulse rate would shoot up and he would text and text and text and text and text until John was next to him again.

Days when the words of emails or the newspaper or a letter would swim, the letters and the words all separate and unrelated and impossible to read for a second or two or three. Then everything would swirl and snap back into place, but for those few seconds, Sherlock was lost.

And the other things, too, that John hadn’t noticed yet.

The way Sherlock’s thumb would brush over and over his top lip.

The way Sherlock would pause at his small cupboard and think about the little package shoved at the back of it, under a pile of old socks and underwear, untouched but there, oh yes, there. He’d hidden it as soon as he’d returned to Baker Street, and he meant to throw it out. He did. It had served its purpose. But Sherlock couldn’t make himself do it. Not yet. And he would stand in front of the cupboard, heart thumping, thumb worrying his lip, until he made himself leave the room; made himself stand at the window, a target for any sniper that didn’t actually exist anymore, and made himself play his violin.

At least, if John noticed any of these things, he hadn’t said anything, and the package was undisturbed.

The case at the end of John’s first week back at work was straightforward enough. Well, for Sherlock at any rate. The Met were baffled. Sherlock was brilliant. Acerbic. Amazing. Obnoxious. Brilliant. But too late. They’d brought him in too late, and he was on the cusp of solving it, had just realised who the real target was, and he had run, John on his heels, Lestrade on his way, sirens blaring, but they were _too late._ The killer, having disposed of the goldfish, the cat, the wild birds that fed from the garden feeder, even the potted plants, for god’s sake, had finally worked her way around to attacking her own mother. A twelve year old would-be murderer, not the target of her wastrel father at all, but the perpetrator of all that death, just to get Daddy back for all the broken promises. John had kept her mother alive while they waited for an ambulance and the child had stood in the corner of the kitchen, refusing to put down the knife.

Her smile had been like Moriarty’s, Sherlock thought, as she giggled, her face smeared in blood.

For a minute, she’d actually been Moriarty in his eyes and Sherlock had nearly choked in his disgust and fright at the sight of her. He’d actually stepped between that poor, cold, demented child and John, and spread his arms to shield John, having no other way to protect him except with his body. And she’d laughed as the police and ambulance arrived.

“He’s not Daddy,” she’d asserted, and held her wrists up for the horrified Lestrade to cuff.

Little Nancy Dorsett went cheerfully into custody, having taken her strange and pointless revenge against a man who didn’t actually care.

At home, Sherlock flung his layers of clothes off as he entered the flat, coat one direction, shirt another, trousers a third. A drawer opened; there was a frantic scrabbling sound as he searched for the dog tags. By the time John arrived, Sherlock was naked and kneeling on the floor beside the bed, the tags hanging heavy on his chest. His breath was heaving in his lungs.

John stood beside him, stroking the bowed head. “Hush now, soldier. Shh.”

“Do not tell me to _hush_ ,” hissed Sherlock, “ _Sir_.”

John frowned.

“I cannot _concentrate_ ,” snarled Sherlock, his temper at significant odds with his nakedness, his kneeling. “Idiot. You are an idiot. _Sir_. A blithering _idiot_.” Sherlock’s hands were shaking, when they were not convulsively curling into fists. His heart rate was tripping madly, making the pulse in his throat flutter. His glare at John was ninety percent ferocity, but it was the ten percent that intrigued John Watson. The ten percent that was fear and pleading.

“That is insubordination, Private Holmes.”

“What are you going to do about it?” A snarl. Sherlock’s gaze shot to the wardrobe, where the whip had been returned to gather dust.

“What are you going to do about it _sir_ ,” growled Captain Watson, voice calm and deep and hard as steel. When Sherlock made no reply, the Captain took Sherlock’s jaw firmly in his right hand, and forced him to look up. “ _Ask the question, Private_.”

“What…” Sherlock swallowed at the look in the Captain’s eyes, “Are you going to do about it, sir?” Instead of defiance, there was a note of relief. Yet another of anxiety. He winced ahead of the punishment he had courted. He needed to focus. He needed this. The Captain said he would not hit him, but Christ, he needed _something_ to start the cycle, so he could clear his mind and rid it of this awful, awful apprehension.

John snapped into military at ease. “Thirty press-ups for starters.”

“Press-ups?”

“Thirty,” barked the Captain, “Now.”

Sherlock found himself responding with barely a thought, stretched out on the bedroom rug, poised on his toes, hands and arms holding him up, muscles taut. _One. Two. Three._ His nose touched the carpet, then pushed away. Down and up. Down and up. _Ten. Eleven. Twelve_. His Captain’s shod feet were by his head, unmoving. As Sherlock came to the end of thirty press ups, the Captain took a step backwards.

“Thirty more, Private Holmes. Twice as fast. _Go_.”

And he continued. Fast and strong. He wasn’t happy, though. This was not… not… not….

Yet he was grateful to be spared the pain.

But this was not enough.

His Captain walked away, although Sherlock could still hear him. He paused at the door. “Twenty more next, on one arm. Your left. I’ll be back. If I see you’ve been slacking you’ll get another twenty.”

Sherlock counted, and considered what he would have to say next, to get the desired response.

As he neared the end of the latest round of press-ups, footsteps marked the Captain’s return. A different timbre. Different shoes. Sherlock spared a glance.

Combat boots.

His Captain was in his fatigues again.

“At attention, soldier,” snapped the Captain. He threw a bundle of clothing onto the bed.

Sherlock rose to his feet, to the kind of attention that someone who hadn’t actually been in the army thought was correct. The Captain gave him an appraising look that found him wanting.

“Pull in your stomach there. Feet like so. Give me a salute. That’s a sloppy abomination of a salute, Private. Hands like this.” The Captain pulled and pushed and tapped with the side of his boot until he was happy.

“At ease,” he said, and repeated the critique and adjustment until Sherlock’s at ease position was correct.

Then the Captain picked up the bundle from the bed and thrust it at Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock had to grab hold of it. A khaki vest. New fatigues.

“Your uniform. Get into it. Now.”

“I haven’t any boots, sir,” said Sherlock with as little respect as he could muster.

“You don’t get boots, Private, until I say you get boots. Into your uniform _now_.”

“Or?”

Sherlock was startled at the speed with which the Captain was there, not a finger’s breadth between them, looking up at him through narrow eyes. Being shorter did not diminish by one jot the flat, impenetrable steel of those blue eyes, that hard line of a mouth.

“Or you are out of this unit, soldier. You will obey my orders or you will _muster out_. Do I make myself clear? _Private_?”

“Sir. Yes, sir,” said Sherlock crisply, shocked. Relieved. He felt the tension unwinding in his shoulders. Without another word, he pulled the trousers on and tugged the khaki vest over his head. He found he could breathe more easily still. Perfect.

“Bathroom. _Now_.”

The Captain at his heels, Sherlock strode to the bathroom, at less than a march but nothing like casual. He stood on the tiles at attention (correct this time, he need be told only once).

“I will not stand for insubordination, Private.”

“No, sir.”

“Toothbrush.”

“Sir?”

“Fetch your toothbrush. Now.”

Sherlock fetched the toothbrush, and began to consider the many ways in which it could be used. Uncomfortable ways. Painful ways. But the Captain had said he wouldn’t hurt him. The Captain had stated that in the rules. No corporal punishment. Ah. But. No. This was…

“Did I tell you to anticipate your punishment?”

“No, sir.”

“No, I did not. Eyes right, soldier. Do you see that shower?”

“Yes, sir.” Their standard British bath and shower stall, the tub and fittings clean enough though not pristine. The wall was tiled with fiddly small tiles, the grouting of which was discoloured. The whole was sufficiently hygienic, but stained with age and some unpleasant chemicals employed in Sherlock’s experiments.

“Filthy, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Captain picked up a little-used bottle of anti-mould bath and shower cleanser and thrust it into Sherlock’s hands.

“Every tile is to be scrubbed. Every inch of the tub. I want every fitting to shine.”

“Sir?”

“This is what we call _jankers_ , Private. Latrine and kitchen duty. Punishment for breach of discipline. Confining you to barracks is hardly an option.”

“It’s my toothbrush, sir.”

“I’m hardly going to get you to perform latrine duty with _mine_ , Private. Now. Clean that tub and those tiles.”

Sherlock pulled into a smart salute.

“And you are to count the tiles.”

“Sir?”

“Count each tile. Calculate its surface area, including the grouting. Count the number of strokes with the toothbrush it takes to clean each tile. Use the same calculations to clean the tub and fittings to the exact same standard. You have one hour.”

Already, Sherlock was running the numbers in his head.

“Yes, you _will_ have to work fast, Private, so you had better start.”

Private Sherlock Holmes of John Watson’s army took his toothbrush and the bottle of cleaner and stepped clothed but barefoot into the shower to begin his punishment. His Captain stood at the door of the bathroom, watching through narrowed eyes. Making calculations of his own.

Sherlock thought he would resent it, this menial task. He thought he would be bored. But under his Captain’s unrelenting eye, he focused only on what he had been asked to do. Counting. Calculating. Tipping cleanser onto the bristles of his own expensive toothbrush and scrubbing in short, sharp circular movements, as quickly as possible.

He noted the time only against his mental calculation of how much he should have cleaned by the fifteen minute mark. The half hour. The forty five minute mark.

One hour.

Private Holmes stood in the tub, reeking of bathroom cleaner, arms and legs and hands and fingers aching, covered in sweat. His brain a fuzz of white noise, a little fractious still, but soon. Soon. He would be able to surrender.

“Private.”

Sherlock drew himself to attention. “Yes, sir.”

“Onto the bathmat, Private Holmes.”

He stepped out onto the mat, a little shakily. His Captain carefully took the bottle of cleanser out of his left hand, the toothbrush out of the right. Sherlock hadn’t known he’d been holding onto them so tightly.

“Good lad, Private Holmes. I’m very pleased with your work.”

Sherlock blinked at the warmth in that voice. “Sir?”

“Take a look.”

Sherlock looked. The tiles were indeed very bright. The tub glistened. The fittings gleamed like new.

“Very good work. I’m very pleased with you.”

More tension drained from his shoulders at the praise. He had deserved the punishment, but it was good to have endured it. After punishment came sex. After sex came the care. That was the pattern. It was how this worked.

“Strip now, Private.”

Sherlock stripped to nothing but the dog tags. He was still breathing too hard, his limbs still shaking, but he could feel it slowly falling away from him now, the anxiety. Soon. Soon he could let go completely.

“Onto your knees.”

Sherlock knelt on the bathmat, almost falling but holding his balance. Just. His breathing was shallow, tremulous.

The Captain stood close. He pressed Sherlock’s bowed head against his own stomach and caressed his scalp through his sweat-damp curls.

“Breathe deeply. There’s a lad. Good fellow. And out. And in. That’s it. And out.”

Slowly, Sherlock’s breathing steadied.

Captain Watson put his fingers under Sherlock’s chin and tilted it up. “Eyes on me.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and watched his Captain patiently.

Carefully, the Captain took hold of the tags around Sherlock’s neck and lifted them off.

Sherlock made a sound, a whimper of despair and abandonment, and the Captain immediately buried his fingers in the kneeling man’s hair again, rubbing at the scalp. “Hush, now,” he said. “Shh. Don’t fret. Everything’s all right. I’m very pleased with you. You’ve done exactly as I commanded. You’ve done so well. Shh. It’s all right.” He dropped the tags over his own head and reached into his pocket. He took out a shiny, fresh set of tags and settled them around Sherlock’s neck.

“These are yours,” said the Captain, “Your own tags, Private Holmes. So you always get to choose when and where, just as we agreed. We’re a unit now, you and me.”

Sherlock’s shuddering breath calmed. He looked down, trying to read the letters and numbers pressed into the disks.

“You can look,” said the Captain, and Sherlock lifted the tags, rubbing his thumb over them. Blood group. Serial number ( _221B, his said_ ). Surname. Initials. He lowered the tags again, pressed them briefly against his bare chest.

“Here.” The Captain lifted the new tags up and pressed them against Sherlock’s lower lip. Automatically, Sherlock’s mouth opened, and he felt almost immediately ashamed of that, but the Captain just stroked his hair again.

Sherlock tongued the metal disks and felt the bumps. He couldn’t read them with his tongue, no, but it made him feel better, knowing what they said. _B Neg. 221B. HOLMES, S._

“Now. Shower,” said the Captain calmly, “Up you get. You can spit those out now.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock did so. He waited while Captain Watson turned on the shower and tested the water temperature.

“Right. In you go. That’s it. Face the wall. Hands on the tiles, that’s it. Spread your legs a little. Not so wide. Just brace yourself. That’s it. Wait right there. Breathe in. That’s it. Hold it. Now out. Good.”

The Captain spoke to him, timing the breaths he should take. Sherlock could hear movement and he was clear headed enough now to know the Captain was stripping completely too. Sure enough, a moment later, the Captain stepped into the shower with him.

He began to spread his legs wider, angled his arse out, ready to submit, but the Captain only ran his hands down Sherlock’s back and hips. “Not yet, soldier. Just hold still. That’s it.” The angle of the shower head changed and the next thing Sherlock knew, his hair was soaked through.

“Good man,” said Captain Watson, “Hold right there. Good lad. Close your eyes if you like, but I’m not washing your hair just yet. I’ll let you know before I start.”

Instead, the Captain picked up the bar of soap and worked up a good lather in his two hands. Sherlock could hear it, the slick rhythm of it, the faint tap of the bar returned to the soap dish. Then a pair of strong hands applying soap to his shoulders, the nape of his neck, his back, down. Over his spine and his ribs, over the curve of his bum and into the cleft, but not demanding, no. Sherlock began to angle back again, but the Captain patted his hip and said: “This is just a wash-up, Private. When we return from the field, we clean up first. We settle down and wash the dust off. There you go. Relax.”

More lathering, and those hands continued over Sherlock’s rump, down his legs, lifted one foot then the other, rinsing them both thoroughly before putting them down, so that they didn’t slip on the ceramic.

“Turn. That’s it. Good lad.”

The lather and wash continued – face and throat (cleaned carefully with a flannel, using the mild soap they favoured), shoulders and chest. Arms, armpits, chest, belly, crotch, legs.

Sherlock’s cock swelled at the touch which was not deliberately erotic but certainly far from impersonal.

“Good lad,” said the Captain again, and Sherlock felt it was ridiculous, too, to enjoy praise for simply bathing, “I’m going to wash your hair now. Turn back to the wall. Keep your eyes closed. Good fellow.”

The Captain lathered his hair, rinsed, repeated. He rubbed conditioner through the dark strands. He ran his hands over Sherlock constantly, gently, maintaining contact, maintaining the calm.

“I…” began Sherlock, and then he stopped because he didn’t know how to say it. He said it so rarely.  Victor had demanded repeated apologies, and he had learned to resist them. But the Captain was not demanding any such thing. He took another breath. “I’m sorry, sir. For my insubordination.”

Those sturdy hands did not stop stroking his skin, easing the aching muscles underneath, sluicing away sweat and strain.

“It was a difficult day, Private. I understand that.”

“That girl’s eyes…were… they were… Sir. M-moriarty’s eyes. Sir.” His voice choked a little on that hated, terrifying name.

“I know,” said the Captain, in a soft and sorrowful voice, as though he had seen eyes like that himself before, and not just looking out of Jim Moriarty’s face.

“Sir,” said Sherlock, exhaling misery, “I failed, sir.”

“No you didn’t, Private Holmes.” The Captain pressed his chest to Sherlock’s back. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist. He held on, gently, steadily, one arm high across Sherlock’s chest, the other low across his waist. A firm hug. “I know the mission didn't go as you hoped, but it was successfully completed. Your work was excellent, and the lack of correct intel was not your fault. Not all days in the field are good days, but even though conditions weren’t optimum, we saved a life. The child will receive the help she needs. It’s out of our hands now. You did so well to find her, to help me save her mother. You were extraordinary. I’m very proud of you.”

Sherlock’s next breath juddered out. “I don’t deserve praise, sir.”

“Yes you do, Private Holmes. You achieved so much, as much as it was possible to do with the facts you had and in the time you had. I will praise you as I see fit, even if you think you could have done better. No-one else could have done even half as much.”

Sherlock felt the kiss against his spine. The arms around him held him more closely. The hand near his nipple moved to press over his heart.

“You’ve done good work in the field today, and here at base camp. You accepted your punishment detail and did as you were told. You took care of our camp, and that is taking care of our unit. That is your responsibility as well as mine. And you have done an exemplary job here. Good work. I don’t expect to have to assign this as a punishment detail again. I will assign kitchen and latrine duties as I see fit in future, however, if you need to focus. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good man. I'm very pleased with you."

With their naked bodies pressed close, Sherlock understood that his Captain understood how hungry he was for that praise. Small words for insignificant deeds, as well as larger ones for acts of brilliance in the field. Praise for scrubbing a bathroom tile, for god’s sake, but there was no sense that his Captain thought him weak for it. No sense that his Captain mocked the need.

Sherlock drank them up, the praises small and large, and instead of being ashamed of the buzz of pleasure it gave him, Sherlock simply felt grateful. And his Captain kissed his spine, the nape of his neck, the point of his jaw under his ear, and whispered: “Good lad. Good lad. I’m so proud of you.”

Captain Watson turned off the water. Guided Sherlock onto the bath mat. Dried first Sherlock and then himself and then led Private Holmes to bed.

The Captain sat with his back propped up against the bedhead, pillows all around him, and he led Sherlock to lie in between of his legs, on his side. Without thinking about it, Sherlock lipped the Captain’s dog tags into his mouth and tongued them; sucked slightly on them while he closed his eyes and thought only about the texture, and the taste, and feeling safe at last.

Two strong hands stroked his damp hair. His shoulders. His hips and thighs. Slowly, at softly spoken commands, Sherlock turned and spread his legs and sighed and moaned and thrust as he was stroked to orgasm. Then, sleepily, he exchanged the dog tags in his mouth for his Captain’s erection, and licked and sucked, until his Captain turned him gently on his side, slipped lubed fingers into his arse and then, while Sherlock moaned for more, and arched, his Captain kissed his shoulders and his neck, turned him onto his belly and entered him carefully, and fucked him slow and sweet until they both came.

Sherlock, in the bliss of surrendering choice and thought, dozed as the Captain cleaned them up. Then he unselfconsciously cuddled in close, his long body slotted against and over his Captain’s shorter one. He slept with his face pressed into the warmth of his Captain’s skin, his Captain’s dog tags pressed against his lip.

John Watson took much longer to sleep. Instead, he held Sherlock close, his thumb rubbing small circles over Sherlock’s shoulders, and contemplated what he thought was really going on, here.

*

_They threw out most of his toys on his seventh birthday. Not the educational ones, obviously. He got to keep the educational books too. The rest of his books went into the same box as Pythagoras the Bear, his Transformers robots, the Space Hopper, most of the board games that Mycroft used to play with him. He tried to steal Pythagoras back and hide him in the cupboard. Mummy found the bear and put him on the fire. “Time to grow up now, Sherlock. You’re far too smart to play with baby’s toys. Show me how you use your microscope instead. And see, I got you an abacus today.”_

*

The next day, dog tags put into the drawer again, John was called away to work a shift. Sherlock swore he was fine, but ten minutes after John had left, he was standing in front of the small cupboard, considering the package stowed at the back of it.

Half an hour later, he drew it out and held it, still wrapped, against his throat. He rubbed his cheek against the wrinkled paper, sensing the pliable softness underneath.

Then with a snarl he shoved it back into the cupboard, slammed the door shut and stalked around the living room, muttering at himself. _Infantile. Disgusting. Grow the fuck up. Burn it._ Until he sat hunched on the sofa, thumb worrying his lip, sliding back and forth, until he realised he was doing it.

He dressed, stomped out of the house with the parcel jammed into a pocket and went to Regent’s Park, where he contemplated throwing it into a bin. Into the pond. Burying it under compost.

But he took it home and shoved it back into the cupboard.

That night there were dreams, through which he whimpered but did not rail or shout. John caressed him awake, kissed him, and kisses became frantic, Sherlock pulling John on top of him, just like that first time, pulling John down to anchor him, and they ground their hips together. After Sherlock orgasmed, then John, they held onto each other.

“Love you,” John murmured over and over, kiss after kiss, “Love you, baby. I missed you today. God you smell good. I love that. And your hair.” John carded his fingers through the tangled curls, “God. You’re lovely. Love you. Love you.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms and legs tight around John and breathed in the scent of him.

John didn’t mention therapy, though Sherlock could _feel_ the thought in him.

“I can’t,” he whispered, “I can’t tell…” _anybody_.

 “Shh,” said John, kissing Sherlock’s lips in soft, easy, soothing presses. “I know. It’s all right. You can tell me.”

“I can’t,” said Sherlock, and held tight.

*


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock was little, he experienced primary nocturnal enuresis - bedwetting - until he was nine years old. This night, in the grip of terrible dreams, it happens again. Filled with distress and self disgust, Sherlock fears that this is it. John will leave him now. But his Captain knows what PTSD can do to your body, and more importantly, Captain John Watson is nothing like Sherlock's father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a difficult scene for me to write, for a couple of reasons, and I hope that I've done it justice and with respect. My thanks to my friend D who gave me some important background information and also helped me through some not very pleasant memories of my own.

Two nights of nightmares, and Sherlock would wake up sweating and twitching, and John would be there, hushing and soothing. _I’m here, I’m here_. Sherlock took to wearing the tags to bed. They seemed to help a little.

On the third night, the nightmares were filled with blood and screaming, and Sherlock woke up wet.

Horrified, he scrambled out of bed and stared at the sheets. At John, still sleeping. At his own sopping pyjamas, damp and dirty and disgusting and _oh god, oh god_ , this hadn’t happened since he was nine.

First item. How to get John out of bed without noticing so he could strip it.

Second item. How to get rid of the evidence.

_Oh god, he’d have to… kick John out of the bed, or move upstairs himself, or or or, **oh god.** It was over. It was all over. John would never share a bed with him again. Would never touch him again. Filthy. Filthy boy._

In his panic, he dropped to his knees and started to yank the corner of the bottom sheet up. He could... he could... no. No, he’d wake John, and then he’d have to explain and _oh god oh god oh…_

“Sherlock…?”

With a strangled whimper, he looked up into John’s eyes, and his hand went to his own dog tags and clung to them.

“Shh, now, Private Holmes, it’s all right.”

“I…I…I…”

“Breathe. Everything’s fine. I’m not angry. I’m not upset.”

“I… I…”

John had risen and was walking around to Sherlock’s side of the bed. Sherlock cringed as the Captain crouched beside him.

“It’s filthy,” snarled Sherlock, flinching away, “I’m filthy.”

The Captain’s sturdy hand smoothed across his shoulders. “No, Private. You’re not filthy.  If nothing else, urine is generally cleaner than saliva. You know that.” Gently, he pulled Sherlock against his chest and held him. “You know that this isn’t uncommon among veterans, especially those who have experienced trauma.”

Sherlock shivered and leaned into the embrace, wanting to believe that it was all right. That the Captain wasn’t disgusted with him.

“It’s distressing, I know.” The Captain stroked his shoulders, “The nightmares I had when I was first in hospital, and after I came home – I'd wake up screaming, crying, and yes, pissing the bed.  It happens."

Sherlock looked uncertainly at his Captain. Far from being disgusted at the admission, he felt overwhelmed with sorrow – that his Captain (his John) had ever been through that.  And alongside the sorrow, there was relief.

_Not just me. Not alone._

Sherlock swallowed, still unable to look his Captain in the eye. His face crumpled, and he pressed his nose and closed eyes into the Captain’s neck, breathing into the pulse point.  

“Shh, now.”  The Captain stroked his hair and kissed his temple. “Here. Let’s sort this out. Out of those pyjamas; that can’t be comfortable.”

The Captain rose, bringing Sherlock up with him. He plucked the blue robe up from the chair over which it was draped and held it out. Sherlock stripped off the pyjamas and let the Captain drape the robe around his shoulders. He took Sherlock’s face in his hands.

“Look at me, Private.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock looked.

“The human body reacts to stress in different ways. It reacts to _trauma_ in a number of ways, including this way. It happened to me. It’s happened to a lot of people. A lot of good, brave, smart people.  There’s a medical term for it and everything. Right now, we’re going to have a shower, because you’re cold, and distressed, and you’ve had a nightmare. Then we’re having a cup of tea. And then we’re going back to bed. You and me. Together. All right?”

“S-s-sir…”

“It’s all right, Sherlock. I’ve got you. It’s sorted, and I’ve got you.”

The Captain held him close, and Sherlock strained all of his senses, he observed and deduced and analysed and he could detect no revulsion. No distress. Nothing but calmness and kindness and his Captain taking care of him.

_He’s not leaving me. He’s not leaving…_

When the Captain drew him in for a hug, he went with the pressure of those sturdy hands across his back, against his skull, and sank into the embrace.

“We should strip the bed,” he managed to say, his voice shaking with reaction, “Wash the sheets.”

“We’ll wash them in the morning,” the Captain said, but shifted away from the embrace enough to rub his thumb along Sherlock’s cheekbone. “Help me with the bedding, though.”

Between them, they stripped the bed, piling damp sheets in a heap in the corner, blankets in another, and opening the window to air the room. The shame crept into him again at the sight of it, but the Captain took him by the hand and led him to the bathroom.

Under the shower, Captain Watson bathed him, and then handed him the flannel so he could bathe his Captain in turn, and that made it feel less like he was being ‘cleaned up’ and more that they were just looking after each other. They kissed under the warm running water.

Dried and in fresh pyjamas, the Captain made tea and they ate biscuits. Captain Watson hand fed the Private pink wafers, breaking them in half to share. Between bites, the Captain would stroke Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb, or pet his hair. “Feeling better?”

Sherlock pressed his cheek into the Captain’s touch. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry about the bed, sir.”

“There is no need to be sorry, Private. You went through so much while you were gone, and naturally you have bad nights. You may have them again. It’s all right. I want you to know you’re safe now. You’re back home and I’m looking after you, and it’s all right. Even if you have more bad dreams and bad nights. Even if the bedwetting happens again. I will look after you.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” He closed his eyes. He felt the press of wafer against his lip and opened his mouth for the offered bite.

“Good lad. That’s my good boy. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, because he believed his Captain.

Up in John’s old room, the Captain got into bed first. He sat up and smiled reassuringly. Sherlock slid in beside him and lay on his back, holding his tags in one hand, rubbing the inscription between his fingers. He closed his eyes as the Captain ran his fingers through Sherlock’s drying curls.

“I love you,” said his Captain.

Sherlock opened his eyes to look up at into blue eyes that were warm and kind and not the slightest bit condescending or pitying.

“As a child,” Sherlock confessed, “I experienced primary nocturnal enuresis until I was nine years old. My father refused to send me away to school until it stopped.”

The gentle rhythm of the fingers in his hair never ceased. “Enuresis isn’t uncommon in boys that age.”

“He would rub my face in it. Tell me I was disgusting.”

The fingers tensed then stilled, then resumed petting him.

“He was wrong. He was wrong to do that to you.”

Sherlock could detect the slight tremor in the touch. _He wants to hit my father._ He curled into John’s side and pressed his face against the Captain’s bare hip and waist.

“If it happens again,” Sherlock said, voice muffled against the skin, “You won’t leave me.” The statement had a questioning lilt in it, despite his best effort.

“Of course not.” That sturdy hand cupped and stroked the top of his head, and the other ran from his shoulder to his elbow, anchoring him. “I am not disgusted. You are not disgusting. You are my beautiful boy. My good lad. This _happened_ to you, but there’s nothing _wrong_ with you.”

The Captain wriggled down in the bed so they were side by side, and Sherlock burrowed into his tight embrace.

_He won’t leave me. John won’t leave me because of this. He’s staying._

He tilted his head up to meet the kisses that were being dropped over his hair, his forehead, his nose.

“Sir?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you too.”

Captain Watson (his John) smiled and kissed his lips, softly at first, then more intensely, and then the kisses gentled again.

Sherlock didn’t want that. He didn’t want calm. He wanted touch and kissing. He wanted to know more than the fact that John wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t make him go. He wanted…

“Hush, now,” John murmured, kissing the corner of his eye, the end of his nose, affectionate but not sexual gestures. “I told you. I’m not leaving, and there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“But you don’t want to… to… touch me. To… to have…”

After the briefest hesitation, John kissed Sherlock’s lips. He licked open that cupid’s bow mouth, deepening the kiss and taking his time with it. Sherlock sighed and surrendered. He held to John’s waist and rubbed his thumb against his Captain’s hot skin.

“I do want to,” his Captain murmured at last, drawing away only a little, “I will always want you. Nothing changes, except that now I know more about what you need. I can be a better Captain to you when I know what you need. That’s why you’re allowed to _ask_ for what you need. It’s why you’re allowed to say ‘no’ and ‘stop’.” His fingers trailed down Sherlock’s cheek, over his jaw, down his throat. “Tell me what you want.”

“Please,” Sherlock whispered, arching into the touch, “Please, sir. If you want to. I want you to come against me.” _Show me, give me evidence, that you still want me after this._

The Captain’s hand continued down Sherlock’s chest, fingertips pressing over the soft cloth of his T-shirt, against his chest and belly, then finally slid under the elastic of his pyjamas and between Sherlock’s legs, cupping his cock and balls. John claimed Sherlock’s mouth again and kissed him thoroughly, while his hand kneaded Sherlock’s sensitive skin softly until his cock grew thick against John’s palm.

“Pull your pyjamas down,” the Captain commanded, and Sherlock complied, heart racing. The Captain moved down the bed to take Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, to suckle. It wasn’t what Sherlock had asked for, but seeing it made him harder; yet made him unwind further too. _Not disgusted. He still wants me._

Then the Captain was kicking off his own pyjamas and straddling Sherlock’s thighs and angling his hips so that their cocks rubbed together, dry friction growing slicker with pre-cum as John pushed the two of them together.

“You’re my good lad, my beautiful boy,” the Captain said, and now his hand was holding their erections together in a tight tunnel, hot and smooth and slick and perfect. “Push against me, god, that’s it, that’s fucking perfect, so good, keep going… yes, harder, I want to feel your balls against mine, push up, Christ yes, god, harder, keep going, _harder, **faster**_ , Christ.” And Sherlock bucked up, thrusting his cock against John’s, and both into John’s fist, bucking up so that even their tightening scrotums pressed into each other, pushing his hips into the sensation of John’s thighs wrapped around them and he could feel the elastic of his pyjamas around his own knees and his shirt riding up to expose his stomach…

The Captain’s encouragement to move, to go _faster_ , to go _harder_ disappeared in a hoarse cry as John came hard, on Sherlock’s belly and his T-shirt, and almost immediately after, Sherlock came too, hot and sticky over John’s fingers.

Sherlock’s breath came in heavy, panting gasps as the Captain leaned down to kiss him. Then John reached for his own discarded pyjama pants, used them to wipe them both down, helped Sherlock out of his now messy shirt. He collapsed onto the bed again and pulled Sherlock to him. Their bare legs entwined, and John’s sleep shirt was soft against Sherlock’s cheek as he cuddled close.

“You’re my good lad,” said John sleepily, “Don’t ever forget that.”

“No, sir,” Sherlock sighed out in a breath, reassured and warm, and safe.

*


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock still has bad days, but things are getting better. There's still that Thing in the Cupboard and the things he can't talk about, but he's learning to ask for what he needs, and he's learning he's allowed to have what he needs, whether he needs a hug, sex or Treasure Island. John's learning things too. At least, he is suspecting them, and he goes to Mycroft to find out more, because it is a capital mistake to theorise without data.

A week later, and another case had a less than ideal outcome, though not as gruesome as the last. Sherlock was shaken, though. Something about the situation had been an echo, a shadow, of a past horror. The bomb that failed to detonate, perhaps. The use of the teen as a hostage.

But no-one had died, or been injured, least of all them.

Yet once home, Sherlock had flung clothes aside, scrabbled through his drawer for his tags and knelt on the bedroom rug with that peculiar mix of rage and supplication.

Captain Watson shut Private Holmes’s outburst down before it had got past an accusation of  ‘idiot’. Sherlock was made to do fifty press ups, and while he did them, the Captain crouched nearby, a hand on the small of his back, warm and light, but unmistakably present _. I am right here_ , the touch said, _but I will not tolerate this behaviour._

After donning his fatigues and vest, Sherlock’s kitchen duty then was to empty the cutlery drawer and polish each item to a shine.  The Captain inspected the result an hour later, and praised Sherlock for his work, in the field, as well as on the spoons.

The Captain was also in his army fatigues by then. “Hands on the table, soldier,” he said.

Sherlock sat very straight and placed his hands on the table, palm up. He wondered if he’d be hit this time, despite the promise. Victor had once used the whip so hard on his hands he hadn’t been able to usefully work in the lab for a week.

Instead, Captain Watson sat opposite him and held onto Sherlock’s wrists. Feeling his pulse.

“It was a bad day for you today, Private, wasn’t it?”

“Yes sir.” The tension was still wound tight in Sherlock’s shoulders.

“You need to forget how it worked the last time you did this, Sherlock,” said the Captain gently, “Whatever you did with that fuckwit Victor at uni, I need you to delete it. At least, you need to disregard it. Can you do that?”

Sherlock frowned. “I… can.” He sounded dubious.

“Let me make this clear to you. If you have had a bad day, if you are feeling distressed, if you want comfort and care, I will give those to you. You do not have to act out to fulfil some barbaric pattern of abuse and care. You do not have to be insubordinate for me to give attention to you. Without the tags, I will do that. With the tags, I will do that. I want to look after you, to take care of my unit. I am your commanding officer. _You_ are my unit. I take care of you, and you… well, in turn, you take care of me, actually. And if you want or need something, you make a request. It’s that easy. It really is.”

Sherlock blinked, and along with the Captain, noted that his pulse had calmed. Still, he felt dubious.

“You have… anger… to express. John.”

“I really, really don’t, Sherlock. I have control issues, I’ll admit that. But I am not angry with you. I have no aggression I need to take out on you. I have no need to hit you or hurt you or punish you. Mycroft might be another matter. Anyone who hurt you when I couldn’t be there to protect you, certainly. But not you. Is that clear?”

Sherlock swallowed. He nodded.

“I have tried to follow your lead on this, Sherlock, to understand what you need so I could provide it for you. But you really don’t understand it yourself.”

And Sherlock had to agree that it seemed he actually didn’t.

John rose, and the John-ness receded, leaving his Captain in charge. Captain Watson circled to Sherlock’s side of the table.

“Up you get, Private.”

Sherlock rose and stood at ease.

“Report, soldier. I know what you want from me, but I want you to articulate it. Tell me.”

Sherlock drew a breath and said: “Sir. I… I would like…” And he breathed harder, because surely it was not this easy. Surely there was a trick. This part was never freely given. There was always a price to pay for it.

“I want you to tell me, Private,” said the Captain, “Because I need to know you understand what it is you want. I need to know that you are clear on this. It’s not a test. It’s not a punishment. Ask me, and you’ll get it.”

“Sir. I would like. I. I want. I. Please, sir. I want.” Why was this so hard? If he couldn’t ask, he wouldn’t get. This was why the old pattern worked. Punishment and pain. Sex. Aftercare. The care, after. He couldn’t get there another way.

But now the Captain stepped close to him, put his arms around Sherlock and drew him close. One of the Captains’ hands was in his hair, running through the dark strands and the curls that looped around the Captain’s fingers. His other hand was on Sherlock’s hip.

“It’s all right, Private,” said the Captain, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re my good lad. I’m so proud of you. If you can’t say it yet, it’s all right, we’ll work on that."

“Please sir,” whispered Sherlock, barely audible, “I need you… I need you to… Please.”

The hand in his hair exerted a gentle pressure and he folded with it, dropping his shoulders and resting his forehead on the Captain’s shoulder.

“Please sir,” he said.

And the Captain’s arms were around him, holding him close, softly, hands moving across his shoulders and back, and lips were pressed to his forehead and cheek and hair.

“Yes,” said Captain Watson, “Of course I will. I will hold you, Private Holmes. Sherlock. I’ll give you a hug. I’ll cuddle you. It feels silly to say it, I know. We can be so rubbish at some of these words. But it’s all right. Tell me now. Tell me what you wanted.”

“Please, sir, hold me. Please.”

“Of course. Of course I will.” And the Captain began to rock the man in his arms, the tiniest movement, barely noticeable. “You don’t need to misbehave and be punished in order to get care, Private. You don’t have to do that to be noticed, to get attention from me. You don’t need any of that.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Thank you. Thank you.”

“Do you need the Captain for this, Sherlock?” It was John asking.

“I don’t… I don’t know how… I can’t let go without it. Please. Let me surrender. Let me…”

A subtle shift in John’s posture, and it was the Captain who held him. Definitely. “I have you, Private Holmes. Shh. I’m here. I will look after you. In future, if I see it’s what you need, you will have it, without hesitation. If I don’t see it, but it’s what you want, you can ask. Come on, now. Come with me.”

At Captain Watson’s gentle insistence, they retreated to the bedroom. The Captain pulled Sherlock down onto the bed, clothed still, and held him close. They cuddled.

Sherlock, relaxed at last, thought: _I want my Captain to look after me. I want to look after my Captain._

He lifted his hand to stroke John’s chest, moved it down to rest over his crotch. John’s cock stirred in response. “Sir. May I?”

“You don’t have to, just for me.” A warm hand lazily caressed circles on Sherlock’s back.

“I want to, sir. I want… you. Please.”

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, and his hand dipped down to fondle the curve of Sherlock’s bum. He used his other hand to press Sherlock’s hand more firmly down on his erection. “I want you, too. Always.”

Sherlock palmed John for a while, and then unzipped his fatigues to take out his cock, stroke him. Suck and kiss. After a deliciously long time, John lay Sherlock on his back and stripped them both of trousers and pants and vest. He straddled Sherlock and pumped his hips, dragging their cocks together.

“You’re my good lad,” murmured the Captain as he slicked his hands with lube and used his hands to slick their cocks. Hips pumping, hands sliding up and down and up and down, a squeeze at the base, a flick of the thumb over the crown. “My clever, brilliant boy. My good soldier. Come for me, god, so good, that’s it, fuck into my hand, you’re so good. So good. Let me give you what you need, yes, that’s it, that’s perfect, that’s beautiful…”

Sherlock came, shouting, pushing up into John’s hand as John ground down and came, gasping.

*

_He did not thrive at boarding school, but he studied hard and he came top of every science and maths class he had. He, like his elder brother, excelled at art but also like Mycroft was made to drop the subject as pointless at the first opportunity. His skills were sufficient for diagrams and illustrations for botany and anatomy, and what use was art history to anyone?_

_He kept up with music, because it helped him stay calm. And he kept up with theatre, too, without telling his parents. He liked learning how to become other people._

*

The tags went away in the morning, and were not brought out again for a week. It was a good week, all told.  Sherlock was still anxious while John was at the hospital, but he did not appear to be having panic attacks. The shifts were relatively short and John texted him regularly, which helped.

Sherlock didn’t even look at the cupboard more than twice. Three times, tops.

At the end of the third short shift, John returned home at two in the morning to find Sherlock in his fatigues and dog tags, kneeling by the bed. He had a book face down on the floor beside him, and he seemed uncertain, but he did not otherwise appear distressed.

John let Sherlock be for a moment, while he changed into his own fatigues and put on his tags. If he was tired from his hours at the hospital, he hid it. Once changed, he stood in front of his kneeling subordinate.

“Is everything all right, Private Holmes?”

Private Holmes looked uncomfortable.

“I was trying to read, sir. I couldn’t concentrate, sir.”

“Bad day?”

“Bad dreams, sir.” Sherlock swallowed.

Captain Watson petted his hair, caressed his cheek. “Does reading help?”

“It used to, sir. When I was younger and had nightmares.”

“But you couldn’t concentrate tonight?”

“No. I… I assigned myself jankers, sir. I cleaned the bookshelf, sir. Dusted each book individually.”

“Good lad,” The Captain kissed his hair, “Good boy.”

“It didn’t help for long. With reading or with sleep. The dreams are… not the same, Captain, as when I was young.”

“Hmm.” Captain Watson stroked his hair again. “Hand me the book.”

Sherlock handed it up to him. The Captain turned it over. _Treasure Island_. It was new, an illustrated classic hardback edition, purchased just that day from Foyle’s.

He glanced down at Sherlock to see him grimacing, as though awaiting a cruel remark.

“What’s wrong, Private?”

“It’s a childish book, sir,” said Sherlock, sounding embarrassed, “I shouldn’t have bought it.”

“It’s nothing of the sort,” the Captain assured him, “It’s classic British literature.” He reached down to brush his thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip. “The fact that it’s a children’s book does not make it childish.”

“That’s not what…” Sherlock began, then fell suddenly silent.

Captain Watson pursed his lips. He was calculating again, but did not say anything about his conclusions.

“Did you want to ask me for something, Private?”

“I…” Sherlock fell silent, then shook his head.  “No, sir.”

“That, Private Holmes, is a lie.”

Sherlock swallowed again. “Yes, sir.”

“How old were you,” asked the Captain, “When you were informed this was too childish for you to read?”

Sherlock breathed deeply through his nose. Out through his mouth. He wondered what on earth he’d been thinking to buy this damned book. To bring it to the Captain.

“Seven. Sir.” Old enough to know better. Old enough to put away childish things. That had been made very clear. “Never mind, sir, I…”

“Hush, soldier.”

“I…”

“I said quiet, Private.”

Sherlock was quiet. He wondered if punishment was coming. Cleaning the kitchen floor with cotton buds, perhaps. The Captain was considering the issue. And then he came to a decision (his expression until then was stern, somewhat disapproving) and his smile was… well, sweet.

“Strip to your pants, soldier, then into bed.”

“Sir?”

“Strip for bed, Private Holmes.” He stripped off his own fatigues while Sherlock followed his orders, and threw the covers back. Sherlock, in underpants and vest, climbed in with a slightly bemused expression. John climbed in beside him, book in one hand.

John sat against the headboard, opened the book, and began to read. “Squire Trelawney, Dr Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end…”  He paused to reach a hand out to Sherlock, to caress his hair and cheek. “Cuddle up if you like,” he said.

Sherlock cuddled up, head pillowed on the Captain’s thigh, an arm flung across his lap.

The Captain resumed reading.

He kept reading until he was certain Sherlock had fallen asleep at last.

For long minutes after, he sat there, petting Sherlock’s hair, thinking dark thoughts.

Sherlock had been seven when he was told that this book was _childish_ , something to be _ashamed_ of wanting to read, judging from Sherlock’s reaction. Which made Mycroft, what, thirteen at the time? Hardly Mycroft’s fault then, he supposed.

Because – too old for _Treasure Island_ at seven? Bullshit. Sherlock’s undeniable habit of showing off, and putting himself stupidly in danger to prove his cleverness? Alarming bullshit. This pattern of being a vile little shit sometimes, courting punishment, just to get attention and only possibly affection after he’d been disciplined back into line? John had his doubts that _that_ pattern had started with Victor Fucking Trevor.

Sherlock’s desire for the book, and his embarrassment about asking for it, made John want simultaneously to cradle and kiss and protect Sherlock, and to slap, very fucking hard, the people who had attempted to deny Sherlock a childhood, no matter how different or how much of a genius that child had been.

Sherlock sighed in his sleep and John noticed that Sherlock’s thumb was pressed against the edge of his lips. Sherlock Holmes could be very oral, he thought. Gently, John pressed his own thumb against that generous lower lip. Sherlock’s lips parted, and John slipped the pad of his thumb into the gap.

Sherlock sucked on the pad a little, and sighed, and fell into deeper sleep.

John thought he might need to have a chat with Mycroft soon.

*

_At twenty five, Mycroft Holmes suspected he’d done wrong by his little brother, but he wasn’t sure how it had happened, or how to fix it. On Sherlock’s eighteenth birthday, Mycroft had ill-advisedly attempted to hug Sherlock in celebration. Sherlock has simply stared at him as though he were mad. “Don’t be puerile,” Sherlock had said, and drawn away._

_*_

Mycroft had not sent a car for John in a long time, but that certainly did not leave John at a loss. The good doctor simply went to the Diogenes Club during his longest meal break, marched to the Stranger’s Room and left a message. A quiet word from the Club’s terribly efficient, terribly dignified maître de was met with a dagger-like smile and, “I’ll wait”. An attempt to move him on was met with a much louder, “I said I will wait for Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft was not amused when he showed up, which was fine by John. He wasn’t very bloody amused either.

He stood very still and let Mycroft read him because, seriously, there was so much he did not want to say that he thought would be superfluous anyway. Just let the bastard deduce what he will and they wouldn’t have to waste breath on small talk. He glowered while Mycroft completed his appraisal.

“Not seeking my advice on your domestic troubles, I hope.” Mycroft’s smile was urbane and more than a little nasty.

“I don’t have domestic troubles,” said John. It looked like some inane small talk was inevitable, then.

“Indeed. Bliss all round, it seems.”

“This whole arsehole routine? Tedious, Mycroft. Boring. I’m _bored_ with it.”

“What do you expect from me, Doctor Watson? And what, seriously, can I expect from you? Some heart-to-heart about your love life? A request for some word of advice about my brother’s unusual psychology?”

“I have no intention of discussing Sherlock’s current home life with you, Mycroft,” said John in a low and dangerous voice. “I want a little background data. That’s all.”

“And what, pray, do you need with such data?”

John considered telling Mycroft to go fuck himself; to stop pretending to be stupid. What he said was: “You know what Sherlock says. It’s a mistake to theorise without data.”

“Oh, you are trying to deduce him. How… ambitious of you.”

“Fuck you, Mycroft. Come and be a smart arse to me about it when you’ve experienced PTSD, see how fucking _sardonic_ you feel about it then.”

“Is that your diagnosis, Doctor Watson?”

“What I _observe_ is that he has pain I don’t understand, and I’m not sure _he_ understands it.  It’s not just about what happened to him when he was dismantling Moriarty’s empire. It’s deeper and older than that. If I’m to help him, I need to know where it comes from.”

“You suspect.”

“Obviously.”

“Then what more could I tell you?”

“Did they hit him, then? Is that what you want me to ask? Was it thrashings, or simply neglect? Was it cruelty or misunderstanding? Was it them, or was it _you_?  Do you actually give a shit about him at all, or do you just want to stand there being all superior and let him hurt because you don’t know how else to behave?”

Mycroft blinked. The doctor understood more than he’d given him credit for. Which meant, perhaps, that he could be of some benefit after all. Not merely a paramour then, but perhaps in truth a partner.

“I don’t believe they meant to be cruel,” he said cautiously, “And we were difficult children. Not like other children at all, though naturally you understand that. Voracious minds, difficult to keep engaged. They had very high expectations for us, too. A higher standard for behaviour, for intellectual achievement, for almost everything. They wanted us to excel.”

“Right.”

“I tried to give him more, for a while. But if I comforted the baby for crying, then I was punished. I was sent to school when he was only a year old, and there was no-one at home then to be the buffer. Later, I thought it would help him best to grow up quickly, as I had done. I tried to make him strong.”

He watched John process this. He watched John be angry, and then resigned. He watched John regard him with disdain and then pity as he realised: _Mycroft endured this childhood too. He was only a child himself._

He watched John realise that he was no longer mad at Mycroft, and his lip curled in contempt, because did not need or want John Watson’s pity.

And then John Watson surprised Mycroft by not giving him any.

“Tell me, Mycroft – was he really such a disappointment to you all? Because it strikes me that he succeeded in becoming his own man in spite of them, and in spite of you.”

“If that is all, Doctor…” Mycroft said coldly.

“I think it’s more than enough. Don’t you?”

*


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is stupidly reckless at a crime scene. Instead of fighting about it, John sort of proposed. Sherlock sort of accepts. Then there is sex literally in the middle of the Thai takeout on their kitchen table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of cheerful smut as a break from the worst of the angst.

After the Nancy Dorsett case, the Met was inclined to call on Sherlock a little earlier when cases were odd. Sherlock was getting more work via the blog again, too. He and John were kept busy, and money started to come in. John reduced his hours again to one evening shift and one day clinic per week.

The case with the disappearing banker was puzzling but relatively calm. The missing umbrella, the extra pair of shoes, the uncharacteristic behaviour of the dog added up to something diverting rather than exciting, until the bullets started flying. The banker was less than happy at being found and idiotically decided that attempted murder was the best way to conclude the truly staggering embezzlement he had almost succeeded in pulling off.

Sherlock, furious, had been ready to walk into the line of fire. “Imbecile!” he shouted as John forcibly dragged him into cover, “How is _this_ supposed to help? It’s not as if that facile girlfriend of yours intended to actually wait in Barbados for you. She’s having an affair with the driver. Shooting police is not going to make that situation any less embarrassing! How can you be smart enough to plan a heist like this and so _stupid_ about everything else?”

John dragged Sherlock down and practically sat on him. “He’s not aiming at the police, you idiot.”

A bullet thwacked into the wall above them, throwing chips of bricks in a wide spray, one of them nicking John over the eye. Sherlock blanched and pulled John close, so that he was sprawled over Sherlock’s torso, Sherlock’s hands holding John’s head against his chest, where John could hear his heart crashing in belated anxiety. Sherlock was tensing to roll John onto his back, to cover him with his own body, but John was having none of it, and so they lay there, holding tight, trying to protect each other, while blood dripped from John’s eyebrow onto Sherlock’s cheek.

Donovan made short work of the banker, however, since he was a terrible shot. The moment he was in custody, Sherlock pushed John off, inspected the cut. Satisfied that it was shallow and not at all a danger, he leapt to his feet so he could stride about, being magnificently disdainful.

The smear of John’s blood on Sherlock’s skin made him look warlike as his stride took him past the man being handcuffed. He swooped down to rumble something low in the banker’s ear. The banker blanched and jerked away from him, but Sherlock’s expression was simply haughty.

But John had heard the tripping of Sherlock’s heart like a jackhammer as they lay pressed against each other on the ground, had felt his hands tremble as they clutched John to him, out of the line of fire, and he had seen the look of savagery on Sherlock’s face as he’d bent to whisper an unmistakable threat in the banker’s ear.

Lestrade tossed John the first aid kit from the squad car and John cleaned up the small cut as Sherlock snarled at Donovan and gestured impatiently at locations where forensics should place their markers. He skulked up to John and slouched against the squad car, arms folded. “There’s so much stupid on this street, if I could convert it to energy I could power London for a year.”

“I trust you’re counting your own stupid among your energy assets,” said John as he put the kit back in Lestrade’s car. Sherlock gave him a deeply offended look. “Standing in the middle of the street yelling at the pot-shotting thief about how his girlfriend cheated on him isn’t the brightest move you’ve ever made, Sherlock.”

“He was a terrible shot, John. He kept firing wide. Poor eyesight. Too vain to wear contacts, unused to the weapon so it pulled left and he didn’t know how to compensate. I was never in any real danger. I’ve been shot by _professionals_ , John.” He blinked, looking at John’s suddenly very still, very steely expression. “Shot _at_ , I mean.”

“You mean _shot_ ,” said John, quietly, “I’ve seen the scar. I know what those look like, you know. Bullet scars. 

“It was nothing.”

“Don’t you _dare_ talk to me like I’m stupid, Sherlock.”

“It’s nothing _now_. I’m here, we’re alive, it’s done. Stop fussing.”

“Are you ever going to tell me anything about what happened out there? Because I _see_ those scars, Sherlock. I know s _omething_ about what happened to you. I know burn scars when I see them, too, and scars from blades.”

Sherlock glared at John. “This is no place for Captain Watson,” he snarled, “I didn’t ask for him.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose and looked up, sternness replaced with weary concern. “This is the _doctor_ asking, Sherlock, and the man who _loves_ you.  The one you left behind, so I wasn’t there to _help_ you or _protect_ you.”

Sherlock’s scowl softened a little, but not by much. “Doctor Watson, my injuries are healed and I am _fine_. And I left you behind because risking you would have _killed_ us.”

John regarded Sherlock steadily and opted for a new approach.

He said, “Please don’t stand in front of idiots shooting guns again, Sherlock, even if you think you’re perfectly safe from their lousy aim. If someone kills you, even accidentally, I’m going to have to murder them back, and then I’ll have to live out the rest of my pointless, lonely days in a maximum security prison with all the people we’ve helped put away, wondering when I’m going to get shanked in the kidneys with a sharpened spoon and put out of my misery. I’d really much rather grow old with you. If that’s all right with you.”

Sherlock frowned. He ran his thumb over the skin above the plaster that covered John’s eyebrow. “Shanked in the kidneys? No, we can’t have that. Growing old together sounds… not deplorable. All right. That’s… good. Yes. I want that.”

“You don’t have to prove to me that you’re not afraid of them, you know.”

Instead of snarling about the observation, Sherlock kissed the spot his thumb had just caressed.  “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Or to yourself.”

Sherlock sighed. “Leave it, John.”

“Grow old with me, Sherlock. At least _try_.”

“I suppose I can _try_ ,” said Sherlock grumpily. John rolled his eyes. Sherlock smirked.

John poked him in the ribs. “You’re an ass.”

“You’re the one who wants to grow old with me. It’s your own choices you should be querying.”

“Believe me, I do. Regularly.”

When they turned back to the crime scene, the banker had been carted away and Lestrade was, with the rest of the team, pretending they had not just been staring at the men by the car, and how Sherlock had kissed John’s brow, or how, in fact, John Watson had very possibly just sort of proposed to Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock had sort of possibly accepted.

Hours later, after paperwork that Sherlock complained about bitterly while John did the actual filling out thereof, they returned to Baker Street with Thai takeaway. Sherlock ate a few mouthfuls and claimed not to be hungry, though he seemed to enjoy licking up the noodles that John spilled on his own wrist. John then made a game of hand-feeding Sherlock choice morsels of beef, a few bites at least.  He paused, however, when he found Sherlock regarding him with worried speculation.

“What?”

“I don’t really want you to query your choice of me,” said Sherlock.

“I don’t,” John assured him.

Sherlock frowned. “You should.”

“Make up your mind,” John smiled.

“I have. I want to grow old with you, just as you asked. If you think you can stand me for that long.”

“Idiot,” said John fondly, putting down the food, “As if I could stand to be without you again. I’m more worried you’ll finally get bored of me and kick me out.”

“Idiot,” echoed Sherlock. He rose from his seat, went to John and straddled his lap, facing him.  He cradled John’s face in his fingers, lingering briefly over the plaster covering the small wound. “The very idea is ludicrous. You are the least dull person I’ve ever met.” He kissed John gently. “By which I mean,” he kissed him again, sliding the tip of his tongue slowly over John’s bottom lip, “You are endlessly fascinating.”

The kiss deepened and John held onto Sherlock’s waist for a moment before slowly pulling the dark silk shirt out of Sherlock’s trousers. He traced Sherlock’s ribs with his fingertips, rubbed his spine in soft, slow circles. His fingers moved down, past the snug space of the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers to knead the rise of his arse.

Sherlock’s hands left John’s face long enough to unfasten the button and the zip of his trousers, allowing John room to dip his hands further down, to fill his palms with the luscious curve of Sherlock’s bum. Sherlock pushed his hips forward and down, grinding into John’s lap and the firming bulge there. John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock thrust his hips again. He leaned down to brush his lips against John’s ear, with a hot, breathless litany.

“I want your cock in me, John. I want your mouth on me. I want to kiss you. I want to fuck you. I want you to fall asleep on me watching those stupid films of yours. I want you next to me when I wake up. I want to solve crimes with you. I want to fight with you and make up with you and eat breakfast with you even when I don’t want breakfast. I want to lick your nipples. I want you to suck mine. I want to watch your hands while you heal people. While you heal me. I want to see you staring down men twice your bulk and half your courage. I want to hear you swear, and laugh, and call me baby, even though it’s ridiculous. I want to hear you tell me you want to fuck me. I want you to tell me I’m brilliant. I want you to suck my fingers. I want to lick every inch of you. I want to tease you about your terrible typing and your worse blog, and be amazed by you and I want to be young with you and grow old with you. I want everything, John. I want everything. _Everything_.”

John buried both hands in Sherlock’s hair and brought him down into a fierce unrelenting kiss, mouths pressed hard together while his tongue curled and flicked and licked against Sherlock’s, and his hips bucked up into Sherlock, who pushed down. He broke the kiss to suck a red mark onto Sherlock’s neck, while he tugged and fumbled at Sherlock’s shirt buttons. He managed to undo one, tear off another, and lowered his mouth to suck a second mark over Sherlock’s left nipple.

“Everything,” he agreed when he had marked the skin, “For always,” before bringing their mouths together again.

Sherlock half stood so that he could undo the button and zip of John’s trousers, and John lifted his hips long enough for Sherlock to tug trousers and pants both down to John’s knees. Meanwhile, John pulled at Sherlock’s trousers, pushed his hand into the front of them to palm Sherlock’s cock, caress his balls through the soft cotton of his boxers.

“Christ, I want you,” John growled, pushing Sherlock’s shirt up to bite-kiss Sherlock’s stomach. He pulled Sherlock’s trousers down to his thighs, then his boxers, “I want everything with you. I love you.” He ran his palm and fingers down, from the crown of Sherlock’s prick, the shaft, to cup his balls and press fingers back into the crease of his backside. “I want to fuck you, baby.”

Sherlock pushed backwards onto the table, shoving aside phat thai, beef and basil, fish cakes and rice with his bare arse. John rose with him, pushing Sherlock further back, and Sherlock abandoned dignity to thrust his legs in the air so that John could shimmy his trousers and pants completely off. Then John grabbed Sherlock by the hips and hauled him forward again, so that John’s erection pressed hard and insistent between the cheeks of Sherlock’s arse. John’s cock, the head slick with pre-cum, slid hotly against Sherlock’s anus. Sherlock moaned and arched, trying to push onto it.

John made three, four, five shallow thrusts against and past the puckered skin while his hands were busy with the rest of Sherlock’s shirt buttons. Then he rubbed the flat of his hand over Sherlock’s belly, his chest, his nipples, up over his throat, down again. Sherlock writhed and pushed down again.

“John, Christ, _get your cock in me_.”

John circled his hands around Sherlock’s waist, further around to squeeze his bum, up his thighs and calves to arrange them over his shoulders.

“Lube,” John panted, “Christ, where’s the lube?”

“You don’t need the goddamned lube,” Sherlock muttered, flexing his hips to increase the rub of John’s slick cock against him.

John grabbed Sherlock’s hips again to test the theory, and found, yes, the crown of him was wet, Sherlock’s entrance was slick, he could push in a little, then a little more, then more, and more. Sherlock was practically yowling with want and shoving himself onto John’s cock by fractions. John spread Sherlock’s legs further, rubbed his hands along Sherlock’s raised shins and thighs, took him by the hips and thrust in earnest.

Sherlock yipped and growled and rolled his hips to meet that delicious sensation of being filled, and John pushed in, again, again. One hand still on Sherlock’s hip, he wrapped the other around Sherlock’s erection, stroking it in time now to his thrusts.

“Fuck, yes,” he was muttering, “Gorgeous, fuck, you are, brilliant. Mine. Always. So. Fucking. Brilliant. Jesus. Fuck. God, you feel good.”

Sherlock was even less articulate, reduced to panting mewls to start with, his arms flung over his head to grip the edge of the table as he moved his body to meet John’s. He spread his legs further, pressing down on John’s shoulders with his ankles to create more leverage as he splayed himself out on the table, thrusting himself onto John’s pumping cock, up into his stroking fist, until with a cry and bowed back, he came in pulsing bursts over his stomach.

John’s rhythm hardly faltered as he stroked Sherlock twice more, eliciting a brief whine of protest at the sensitivity, then gripped Sherlock’s hips and part lifted him from the table as he thrust, thighs slapping against Sherlock’s arse. “Fuck. Yes. Beautiful. Baby. Christ. My. Fuck. Brilliant. Baby. Sherlock. God. Fuck. Yes. Yes. Yes!”

John’s hips pumped through to the end of his climax before, panting, half laughing with happy completion, he collapsed over Sherlock’s body and kissed Sherlock’s chest, throat, chin. Sherlock laughed breathlessly back. He buried his fingers in John’s hair and ran his fingers over the short, sandy strands.

“We’ve ruined the leftovers, I’m afraid.”

John gave one of those wonderful, breathless giggles. “If you’ve got beef and basil sticking to your arse, I’m going to lick it off.”

“I am fairly certain I’m covered in phat thai as well.”

‘You’re fucking delicious, baby.”

“There’s coconut pudding in the fridge. I intend to eat that straight off your sacrum. Possibly out of the top of your gluteal fold, in fact.”

“You are clearly a genius.”

“Yes, I am."

*

 _After Mycroft turned out to be such an unexpected and frankly difficult child, their parents had Sherlock tested early, and often. They shaped everything so that he would reach his potential and not be destructively bored, and so damned strange as his older brother, and it never occurred to them that strange, difficult, bored, brilliant children need most of the same things that other children need_.

*

Still, bad days persisted.

It wasn’t always easy to predict the things that led Sherlock to donning the fatigues and dog tags. Some days he simply lost the capacity to concentrate, and he would report for duty. He asked the Captain for a list of standby camp cleaning duties, which he could throw himself into when he needed the focus. Scrubbing the kitchen and bathroom floors with a nailbrush; polishing the banisters three consecutive times with linseed oil; removing every single item from the cupboard, dusting each, putting them back in order of chemical type, size and colour. The Captain would praise his work, and Private Holmes would begin to let go.

Sometimes Captain Watson read to Private Holmes – they finished _Treasure Island_ , then _Peter Pan_ , and the Captain introduced the Private to _Where the Wild Things Are_ , which Sherlock found fascinating and appealing. He tended to run his index finger over the image of Max marching ahead of the monsters, although the ending made him quiet. On the fourth reading, when they got to the part where Max came home to his hot supper, Sherlock leaned in close, pressed his nose into his Captain’s warm neck and sighed, as though happy to be home himself. John, who had felt like the wolf boy himself more than once in his life, rubbed his cheek against Sherlock’s brow and wondered how anyone could have borne to hurt the boy this man had once been.

Sometimes there was sex. Often there were hugs and cuddles. Always there were gentle commands, loving touches, and the Captain’s voice telling him _good lad, good man, my good soldier, I’m so pleased with you._

Always, Sherlock sighed at the relief of giving up decisions, doing only what his Captain asked; he soaked up the pleasure of the small praises that made him calm and still.

In between times, Sherlock sometimes paused in front of the cupboard. Brushed his thumb over his lip. Moved away. On days of difficult cases; after bad dreams; on days when he had stood frozen in the street, absolutely certain that sneaking death hid in the shadows, only to realise that it was not.

And John said nothing, but noticed everything.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's another bad day, but when they get home, Sherlock can't find his tags. He starts a panicked slide into bad old behaviours, but the Captain isn't having it. Instead, he discovers Sherlock sliding into an even older behaviour, one that was banned when he was tiny. Will this be the thing that his Captain won't abide?
> 
> Or is it the thing, now it's known, that will break down the next-to-last wall of Sherlock's secrets.

John knew before they reached the front door that this was a day for the tags. Sherlock had come to meet him after work, for a start, and had sat at the side of the waiting room, deducing patients. He’d seemed calm enough, and rather luckily he’d spotted the knife that the bullying, strung out groundskeeper was carrying just before he used it on the nurses trying to triage him. Spotted and disarmed, in fact. Sherlock had only been slightly nicked by the blade, and John had put in a superhuman effort not to beat the groundskeeper senseless. As it was, he hadn’t bothered to be especially gentle with the sedative.

But Sherlock never met him at the hospital for the end of his shift – Sherlock hated emergency waiting rooms. He’d paced the floor after the groundskeeper incident, glowering at all comers, twitching faintly at sharp coughs or the cries of small children.

He’d calmed slightly as John completed his handover and walked with him to the cab rank. John talked lightly about his day as they sat, Sherlock close up to his door and staring out of the window, but his hand extended onto the seat. John laid his fingers over Sherlock’s, his thumb rubbing gently against Sherlock’s pinkie 

Home, and up the stairs, and Sherlock went straight to their room. John stripped off his trousers and shirt, and followed Sherlock to change into this Captain’s fatigues. Fatigues was right. He was tired. It had been a long shift. But Sherlock clearly needed him, and he had no intention ever of failing that need.

In their bedroom, Sherlock was half undressed, and hyperventilating. Pulling out drawers and burrowing through wardrobes, sweeping items from surfaces, scrabbling to open boxes. “It’s not here. It’s not here. It’s not _here_.”

“Sherlock…”

“ _It’s not here_ ,” Sherlock whirled on him, eyes wild. His chest was heaving with the effort to breathe. “It was here. I left it here. It’s always here. It’s gone. Someone’s been in here. Someone’s stolen it.” His hand clutched at the space on his chest where his tags would normally hang.

“Calm down, Sherlock, you’ve just misplaced them. I’ll…”

“I don’t _misplace_ things,” Sherlock snarled, “I know exactly where I put them. _Exactly_. You _idiot_ …”

“Enough!” John barked, drawing to a smart military stance, “Attention, soldier!”

“I’m not wearing…”

“ _I said attention, Private Holmes_!”

Sherlock snapped into a rigid attention, mouth shut, eyes front. His chest still heaved and his pulse hammered in the vein at his temple.

“On your knees.”

Sherlock dropped to his knees at once.

Captain Watson stepped up to him and placed a hand on Sherlock’s head. “Breathe, Private. In. Hold. That’s it. Out, slowly, two, three. In again. Hold. Hold. Hold. And out. Good. Good man.”

“Sir, I can’t find…”

“We will find them, Private. First, get dressed and report for duty. Go.” He stepped away again, and clasped his hands behind his back, feet braced apart.

Sherlock rose and finished stripping off his day clothes before pulling on his khaki vest and fatigues. “Private Holmes reporting to Captain Watson, sir.” He saluted. He stood at ease after that, but the anxiety was still clear in every tense line of his body and face.

His Captain returned the salute smartly. “I shall conduct a search for the tags. You, Private, will report for jankers.”

“Sir…”

“Bathroom mirror. Use a cleaning cloth but only the pad of your right index finger. Clean each square inch of mirror with five clockwise and five anticlockwise motions. Calculate the number of square inches you have to cover, the time to clean each square inch, and the time to clean the entire mirror.”

“I…”

“Take a breath, soldier. Think.”

“Forty minutes, sir.”

“Switch to your left index finger at the twenty minute mark. Understood, Private?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go.”

Sherlock turned on his heel and went to the bathroom to begin the chore. The Captain didn’t need to follow him. The order had been given. It would be done.

When Sherlock was out of sight, John chewed his lip as he thought. Then he went to his own bedside table, pulled out the second drawer and removed the small wooden box he kept in there. His medals and ribbons were tucked inside it and, there they were, on top, his tags and Sherlock’s. Mrs Hudson had been tidying again. She tended to bustle about and neaten things up if she brought up the clean washing.  He’d found his own tags moved from the sideboard to this drawer before, when this drawer resided beside the bed in the upstairs bedroom. He’d have to remind her that she wasn’t their housekeeper, and to show Sherlock where to look in case she ignored him.

John swiftly changed into his khaki vest and trousers, put on his own tags and put Sherlock’s in his pocket. Normally, he’d make sure Sherlock finished the chore he’d been set. It obviously helped to keep him focused and calm, but his distress had been intense. In fact, normally Sherlock would have deduced the location of the tags in moments 

As he approached the bathroom, he heard Sherlock take a ragged breath. There was a dull thud and rattle of the plastic bottle being dropped, and another ragged breath, a whimper.

John opened the door cautiously. The mirror was only partially cleaned. The bottle of cleaning fluid had fallen heavily and was leaking from a split in the plastic onto the floor. The cleaning rag was in the middle of it, soaking up the blue liquid.

And Sherlock was sitting on the tiles, back to the tub, knees drawn up, one fist clutched in his hair, and his other hand pushed against his mouth. Or rather, his thumb pushed into his mouth, his index finger twitching in a curve so that the knuckle rubbed against the end of his nose. In a moment, he’d have hooked the finger over the tip, surely, like a little child, sucking his thumb.

Sherlock looked up at his captain and gave a small, choking cry, whipping his hand away to sit on it. His eyes were anguished. He looked so ashamed, absolutely mortified, and distressed. Like he expected to be beaten.

“I… sir…. Sir. I.”

“Shh, now.” Captain Watson sat on the edge of the tub next to him and petted the hand fisted in Sherlock’s hair. “It’s all right. Let go. You mustn’t hurt yourself.” He stroked Sherlock’s hand until the fist loosened. Then he pressed his own thumb to Sherlock’s lip. Sherlock stared at him, horrified and lost.

“It’s all right,” John repeated, “Go ahead.” He pressed his thumb more firmly and Sherlock, eyes wide, expression disbelieving, opened his mouth a fraction. John rubbed the thumb over his lower lip, just inside, softly. And Sherlock opened a little more, letting the Captain slip his thumb into his mouth. Cautiously, he began to suck on his Captain’s thumb. He looked so ashamed still, so disgusted with himself, but so like he needed it, he needed this.

He closed his eyes and looked miserable and sucked.

His Captain stroked his hair. “Shh, now. You’re not in trouble.”

Sherlock felt his Captain’s free hand circle his other wrist; coax the hand out from under his rump where he’d shoved it. The Captain held his hand; squeezed it, then brought that hand up and kissed his fingers. Gently, gently, the Captain placed Sherlock’s thumb next to his own in Sherlock’s mouth, then slowly withdrew, leaving Sherlock gnawing worriedly at the pad of just his own thumb.

“There you go,” said the Captain, stroking Sherlock’s hair, “It’s all right.”

Sherlock let his thumb slide properly into his mouth, and he suckled on it, and could not look up to meet his Captain’s gaze.

“There, now. Good lad. You’re my good lad.”

“No,” said Sherlock softly, his thumb pressed against his lip, “It’s shameful. It’s infantile. For babies.”

The Captain never stopped petting his hair. “Who told you that?”

Sherlock blinked. “Mummy. Daddy. Everyone.”

“How old were you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Three? Four?”

“Younger. I was… very small.” Sherlock’s face creased in distress again. Captain Watson kissed his forehead, petted his cheek, guided the thumb back into Sherlock’s mouth.

“It’s not shameful. It’s allowed, Private Holmes. Anything you need is allowed, if it is safe and gives you comfort. You’re safe here with me. Always.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the Captain’s thigh, daring to believe it. He still felt ashamed, but he couldn’t stop now. This disgusting habit, this infantile thing, for stupid people, for childish, lesser people. He wasn’t allowed anything. Not touches or cuddles. Not crying. Not anything. It wasn’t allowed.

“Shh, now.” The Captain’s hand was cupped over the one at Sherlock’s mouth. He caressed the base of the thumb that Sherlock had pressed against his tongue and behind his front teeth. “What you need is allowed, Private. Sherlock. Doing things to look after yourself that don’t hurt you is allowed. It’s good. You’re a good lad. My good soldier. You’re not in trouble. No more chores today. You’ve been so good. That’s it, relax. It’s all right. There’s nothing wrong with this. There, now.”

His captain’s voice soothed and Sherlock breathed more easily.

“I want you to come with me, now, Private. Up you get.” The Captain rose and put his hands under Sherlock’s elbows to steady him as he got to his feet. He took Sherlock’s hand in his, squeezed it, then led him to the bedroom.

Once there, Captain Watson sat first, back against the pillows and the headboard, while Sherlock stood beside the bed. Then the Captain tugged at his hand and guided him to lie with him, in the crook of his body, head pillowed on the Captain’s chest.

The Captain guided Sherlock’s thumb back to his mouth. Sherlock, after a moment’s hesitation, began to suck on it again. He couldn’t bear to look up at his Captain’s expression, but the Captain simply petted and kissed his hair and his brow; he ran his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders and arms in slow, undemanding circles; he told him he was all right, it was allowed, he was safe.

Finally, Sherlock turned in his arms, onto his side, and pressed his face against John’s chest. His index finger was hooked over the end of his nose, and he suckled on the thumb while his breath evened and slowed. The Captain never stopped petting him, or murmuring to him.

The Captain did not change his mind, or punish him. His Captain was not horrified or disgusted. He was safe here, just like the Captain promised. Safe.

A long while later, with a little sigh, Sherlock withdrew his thumb and snuggled closer to his Captain’s chest.

“Good lad. Better now?”

“Yes, sir.” A soft, barely heard sigh of words.

 “I found your tags. Let me put them on you.”

Sherlock leaned away so that the Captain could place the chain over his head. The Captain arranged them, tucking the tags underneath Sherlock’s khaki vest. The weight of the tags on his skin made him sigh again, and lean back.

“There’s a writer named Rhawn Joseph,” said the Captain, “He’s got some ideas about aliens that I’m not on board with, but had has a few interesting takes on neuroscience." He petted Sherlock’s hair and kissed his forehead. “In one of his books, he says, ‘within the core of each of us is the Child we once were. This Child constitutes the foundation of what we have become, who we are, and what we will be’.”

Sherlock shivered a little, but his Captain only petted and kissed him some more, no censure in the actions.

“The thing is,” the Captain continued, “People are smart arses about the inner child concept, but there’s something in it.  It’s at everyone’s core, the child we used to be. And sometimes, when we were little, we didn’t get what we needed. The need doesn’t go away, though. Those things that may have been denied us, they’re still necessary things. So sometimes, that inner child still needs looking after. Even if it comes late, it doesn’t have to be _too_ late. Do you understand?”

Sherlock thought he might. He began to hope that he wasn’t so abnormal after all. The Captain didn’t seem to think so, at any rate, and that gave him comfort.

“It’s all right that you need this, Private. More than all right. They should have loved you better, when you were small. They should have looked after you. But I’m looking after you now. Child and man. I will always make sure you have what you need. I love you, and I will take care of you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded against John’s chest and the gesture was oddly young, just like a little boy.

“Can you ask for what you want?” the Captain prompted, “Can you do that for me?”

“Please sir,” said Sherlock, swallowing nervously, “I would like you to… to… to…”

“It’s all right. You’re allowed to say it. You’re allowed to have it.”

“I would… like you to… cuddle me, sir.”

“Of course I will, Sherlock. My good boy.” John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him close, rocking him slightly, as he kissed the top of his head again. “Good lad.”

Sherlock rubbed at his lip again with his thumb, but he glanced up at his Captain, who smiled and nodded. Sherlock slipped the thumb into his mouth. Suckled. Dozed.

The Captain dozed too, but he woke up at the sensation of a warm hand pressed against his crotch. He opened his eyes and looked down at Sherlock’s hand, tentatively brushing over his trousers.

“You don’t have to, Sherlock,” he said sleepily.

“Sir. But you… you looked after me. I should….”

John placed his hand over Sherlock’s and stilled it. Moved it over to rest on his hip. “This isn’t a barter system. You don’t need to put out to deserve comfort, any more than you need to endure pain or abuse to get affection. Would you like me to remind you of the rules?”

“No, Sir.”

“Tell me then, Private. I want to hear you say it.”

Sherlock settled and looked up at his Captain.

“I am entitled to love and affection,” he said evenly, “I do not have to endure pain for you to care for me. I have the right to tell you what I want and to question your orders if I believe them harmful, physically, mentally or emotionally. I have the right to ask questions, regardless. You will not deliberately cause me harm, and sex is never used for punishment. Sex and affection are never something to be traded off, for you or for me. Discipline is about focus and centring, not pain or punishment.”

“Good lad. Very good. I’m so proud of you, for remembering that. And for believing it. You do believe it, don’t you?”

Sherlock snuggled close. “Yes sir, I do.”

“That’s my good soldier. Good boy.”

“Sometimes I do want sex too, sir.”

The Captain smiled. “Me too. But we don’t have to use this space for that, if we don’t want to. This can be just about the care, if you want. We can save sex for when we’re… off duty. We have good sex then as well. Don’t we? You’re satisfied there, too?”

“Yes sir,” Sherlock kissed his Captain’s chest, “But sometimes I like it when you tell me what to do. I like it when you tell me how to suck you, where you want me to lick you. I like it sometimes, when you make all the decisions and do what you like to make us come.”

The Captain chuckled warmly. “Is that what you want now?”

“Not really sir. I’d like a cuddle now, sir. You sir?”

“A cuddle is lovely, soldier. Perfect. Let’s get some sleep, hmm?”

Sherlock settled down with a contented sigh, arms around his Captain’s waist, head on his chest. John shifted slightly to find the most comfortable spot and together they fell into dreamless sleep.

*

When John woke up, shoulder aching somewhat, he realised that Sherlock was stretched out naked beside him, without his tags. He’d been watching John sleep. Sherlock’s expression was thoughtful. A little concerned, even.

“Whassup, baby?” John asked sleepily.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. “It occurs to me,” he said, in a businesslike tone at odds with his nudity, “That elements of our role play may have undesirable consequences.”

That woke John up in a hurry. He sat up, frowning. “Oh? Can you give me an example?”

“Like that infantile display last night.”

John reached out to place his hand over Sherlock’s, caressing the thumb that Sherlock had suckled at. “I told you, and I mean it, whatever you want, whatever gives you comfort that doesn’t harm you, is allowed.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “You… don’t find it at all shameful, do you? Any of it?” he asked, puzzled, “You really don’t.”

“No. I don’t.”

“You don’t see me as… infantile. Not…”

“Of course not.”

“You didn’t want sex,” said Sherlock flatly.

“No,” said John, voice gentling. He caressed Sherlock’s hand again, then lifted his fingers to Sherlock’s chest. “I was dog tired after my shift, Sherlock, and it was important to me that you understood that there was no need for trade-offs. You weren’t in the mood either, as I recall.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Not especially, but this morning I wondered if it meant that… that thing. The babyish… sucking. Made you not… want. Me.”

The incident with the bed wetting was one thing. That happened to soldiers. John said so. It had happened to John, too. There was, John had promised, no shame in something that happened to veterans. This was different, the thumb sucking. The pandering to the… _the_ _child inside_. The Captain had said it was all right; that he would take care of both child and man. But perhaps seeing the child meant that he no longer desired the man.

John kissed him. And again. And again. Each kiss deeper, more sensuous, more demanding than the last. “There is nothing,” he said between kisses, “That can make me not want you. Don’t you know that yet? I love you. You are amazing. Such an incredible mind, and the heart in you, Jesus, Sherlock. Fucking beautiful. Sometimes I’m not in the mood for sex. Sometimes I just want to hold you. Sometimes I’m so hard for you I’m cross-eyed. Like now.”

Sherlock was breathless under John’s mouth and his hands.

“Sit up, baby,” John said, pulling back slightly, “Please.”

Sherlock sat up as John shucked off the layers of Captain Watson and then, naked, he clambered into Sherlock’s lap, legs spread on either side of Sherlock’s hips. He nudged his erection against Sherlock’s belly, shifting to feel Sherlock’s stiffened prick slide against his bum. “Lube?”

Sherlock kissed John and smoothed one hand along John’s ribs while, with the other, he cracked open the tube and clumsily squeezed lubricant all over is fingers. He rubbed his slick fingers down John’s cleft, against his hole. Shifted his hand to fondle John’s sac from behind, then slipped his nimble fingers against and into the ring of muscle.

John moaned wantonly and spread his legs further, nudging backwards against Sherlock’s fingers, encouraging the generous application of lube, the generous invasion of fingers into his body, against his prostate. Then he raised himself up onto his knees, repositioned and slowly lowered himself onto Sherlock’s lube-slicked cock. He captured Sherlock’s clean hand in his and sucked Sherlock’s middle finger into his mouth, sliding the digit in and out of his lips, sucking on it, in a rhythm sympathetic to the one he made, rocking back and forth on Sherlock’s prick.

Sherlock watched avidly as John fellated his finger. John withdrew it long enough to murmur “Fuck me, beautiful,” then sucked the finger back into his hot mouth, and swirl his tongue over the knuckles, the pad. He bit gently at it, and rocked harder. Sherlock began to buck up, pushing his hips hard and fast, wrapping his free hand around John’s hip and lower back to pull his body down as well.

When the exquisite buzz fizzed up in Sherlock’s spine, his balls, through his cock, he came hard and panting as John arched his back, hung onto Sherlock’s shoulders and ground down and down and down. Then Sherlock tipped John onto his back on the bed, let his cock slip free of John’s arse (and John’s wanton moan at that loss was glorious) and wriggled until he could swallow John’s cock down to the root. He licked and sucked, fondled John’s balls and rubbed softly at his perineum and anus while John spread his legs wide and fucked up into Sherlock’s mouth before he came, with a howl of animal joy.

Afterwards, Sherlock crawled up John’s body and kissed him all over his face before flopping alongside him on the bed.

“So. Sexual attraction undiminished then.”

“Undiminished. Definitely,” John panted.

Sherlock started to roll out of bed. John clamped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and made him stay. “Gimme a cuddle,” he demanded, laughing, “I want to enjoy my afterglow.”

Sherlock lay half across John’s body and proceeded to cover his face with soft kisses. John giggled and grinned and pressed his nose into Sherlock’s hair while Sherlock busied himself with John’s neck. “I love you, you gorgeous thing.”

“I love you too, John,” Sherlock murmured back, “I don’t say it much. But I do. I love you.”

“I know,” said John, and kissed Sherlock’s temple.

*


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now - the last secret. What's in the package that Sherlock has hidden in his cupboard? And how will the Captain react?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With my RL workload piling up, I've decided to post the rest of the chapters now. Sorry to be piling you with so much reading all at once. Though, for those who've wanted me to succumb to impatience, you're welcome. Hope you like it.

 The next case was all about the research, which left Sherlock poking through the restricted section at the British Library – under irritating supervision from the librarian who owed him a favour for spotting a forgery in the collection and _for goodness sake, no of course I’m not stealing books_ , though of course he had, just a small one, and he’d brought it _back_. People had no sense of perspective.

John was stuck at Somerset House, comparing original certificates to the ones Sherlock had found online, and determining that yes, someone had tampered with the digital records. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock would be pleased or annoyed about that, actually, since Sherlock hadn’t deigned to explain his current theories. He preferred not to until he’d whittled them down to his two best options, which was an improvement on the days when he never said a bloody thing at all.

John mostly thought that was an improvement, actually. He had at least some idea, these days, of the trouble they might get into before the fact. The unexpected still bit them on the arse from time to time, but Sherlock was much better at keeping him informed when they were getting closer to the action.

John called Sherlock on his way back to let him know about the records.

“That’s curious,” said Sherlock at the other end, “Pointless, really, and a lot of effort, and for what. Who’s it for? Oh. Oh that’s clever. That’s… Oh, _shut up yourself._ _That’s ridiculous, this is a modern library. No, seriously, shut up. You’re giving me brain freeze with the level of stupid you emanate._ ”

And John heard the faint rejoinder from some irate staff member of the library.

“It’s right here, Mr Holmes. ‘Mobile phones must either be turned off or on silent mode’. It’s there in black and white. ‘Calls must not be made or received and texting kept to a minimum’.”

“Petty and stupid. I’m solving a murder _.”_

“I don’t care. You’re not allowed to receive calls in the library. And you’re not supposed to wear that coat either. You’re not special, Mr Holmes, the rules apply to you the same as to everyone else.”

“Don’t be an idiot. Of course they don’t. The general public isn’t… hey… _hey_!”

John listened while Sherlock was frisked and then ejected from the library. He stayed on the phone, listening to Sherlock complain and insultingly deduce everyone in his line of sight, until Sherlock landed on the footpath.

“It’s okay, gorgeous,” John said when Sherlock stopped for breath, “I think you’re special.”

Sherlock made a disgruntled noise.

“You didn’t nick another book, did you?”

Silence. Then, “No.”

“Give it back, Sherlock.”

“I need it for the case, John.”

John sighed.

“Give it back tomorrow, then.”

“Certainly.”

“And for god’s sake, don’t use this one as a tea coaster this time.”

“I’m not a cretin, John.” He sounded so indignant it made John laugh.

“Seriously. I’m a bad man for letting you get away with this.”

“You’re nothing like a bad man,” said Sherlock seriously, “Trust me. I’ve met bad men. Very bad men. Very bad. Very, very, very…”

And suddenly Sherlock was hyperventilating, the rapid, shallow gasps only ceasing when he made them stop on a choked breath.

“Sherlock…”

“They were very bad men, John,” Sherlock’s voice shook, “I swear. Very bad men.”

“Sherlock, breathe. Breathe. It’s all right. Breathe.”

He could hear Sherlock panting, then breathing in, holding, then slowly exhaling.

“That’s it, baby. Breathe. I’m coming to get you. Stay right there.”

“No. I’m… fine. I’m fine, John.” He didn’t sound it, but he didn’t sound like he was on the verge of panic any more either. “John, I’m heading back to Baker Street, now. I’ll see you there. I need to show you...” A faltering moment, and then his voice returned, soft and unsure. “The Captain. I need to show the Captain something.”

The phone went dead.

John flagged a cab and sat on the edge of the seat, urging the driver to go faster, _faster, **faster**_ , until he could shove a handful of notes at him, and run up the stairs, not panicking, _not_ , definitely **_not panicking_**.

John threw open their door and then made himself stand still, fighting to collect his calm. To breathe, breathe, breathe.

_Sherlock is fine. He’s fine. He is fine, and well, and he has something he needs to tell you. Be calm. Be still. He needs you. Be what he needs. Breathe. Breathe._

Slowly, John took off his coat. Hung it on the door. He stepped into the sitting room and pulled off his shoes and socks. Put them neatly by the sofa. He stood straight, hands by his side, head straight, chin up.

Captain Watson walked through the kitchen, down the hall to the bedroom. The door was open.

Private Holmes was in his fatigues and his vest, dog tags around his neck, kneeling on the carpet.

On the bed in front of him was a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. The paper was wrinkled and worn, concealing something small.

Sherlock breathed slowly and deeply. He kept his eyes downcast.

Slowly, John took off his shirt and trousers. Folded them and placed them on the bed. He took his own fatigues and shirt from the cupboard. With slow care, he put on the accoutrements of the Captain. Put the tags over his head, settled them on his chest.

Then he turned to Sherlock.

“Private Holmes?”

“Reporting for duty, sir." 

“Is everything all right, Private?”

“Not quite, sir.” His voice was soft, measured. Fragile.

“Tell me, Sherlock. You can tell me.”

Sherlock reached out for the parcel. He held it in his trembling hands and unwrapped it.

John had expected other things. A syringe and a bag of white powder had been his greatest fear, the moment he’d seen it on the bed.

What he had not expected to see what a teddy bear. Small, perhaps thirteen centimetres high, fur a honey brown, eyes and nose more a chocolate. It had been made in an attitude of sitting, head on one side, as though listening.

Sherlock let the paper fall away to the floor and held the bear, caressed it, fingers rubbing back and forth over its body and head. Parts of the bear had been torn and restitched. There were dark stains on its body and leg. Blood, John thought. _That’s blood._

Sherlock lifted the little bear, squishing it in his hands – _small enough to fit into a pocket_ , John thought, _to hide in your hand, if you had to –_ and pressed the bear against his chin, in the hollow of his throat.

“His name is Watson,” said Sherlock quietly, “He listens.”

Sherlock turned his head to look up at his Captain, and the vulnerability there, the uncertainty, could break a heart.

Sherlock offered the bear to his Captain. He held it up in one shaking hand and blinked. “It’s a teddy bear, sir. For children. For babies.”

John took the bear. He ran his fingers over its soft fur. It was soothing to the touch. Silky. Comforting. He felt how malleable it was; how easily it could fold into the palm of his hand into a small, soft ball. He did that, then opened his hand, letting the bear unfurl, with its sweet, patient face, slightly warped by stitching across one cheek. Similar stitches – Sherlock’s own needlework – marked repairs across the toy’s belly as well. Under the bloodstains. _Sherlock’s own blood_ , John thought.

“Private Holmes.” John sat on the bed in front of Sherlock, who had resumed looking at his feet. “Sherlock.”

When there was no response, John reached down and gently took one of Sherlock’s hands. Brought it up. Gently placed the bear into it, then folded hand and bear to nestle under Sherlock’s chin.

“He’s yours, and you’re allowed. Anything that brings you comfort, if it doesn’t hurt you, you’re allowed,” said John softly, as near to his Captain’s voice as he could muster.

Sherlock’s next breath was sharp, gulping, but full of relief.

“Tell me about the bear, Private.”

“I picked it up in Koln. It… it reminded me of you. And I missed you. So I bought it.”

John stroked Sherlock’s hair. “And you kept it.”

“I didn’t have… I…” He took a shuddering breath. “I used to talk to the skull, sir. And then you came, and I could talk to you, and you listened. And then I had to go, and I didn’t have anyone. And so I talked to Watson. He listened. He listened to me. Once… once he saved my life. The knife went through him first, and he gave me time to act. I fixed him, after. But I couldn’t get the blood out. He didn’t mind. Watson doesn’t mind. He listens and he doesn’t mind that I got him cut.”

His hands were shaking hard. John placed a hand over Sherlock’s hands, both now folded tight over the bear, but only to squeeze the fist. Stroke the skin with his thumb.

“It’s all right, Sherlock. Breathe, now.”

Sherlock dragged in a breath. Exhaled slowly, eyes closed. “I was so alone,” he said, “But I wasn’t. Watson was there. Watson was always there. You were always there. And I told him everything. All the time.”

John lifted his other hand, brushed his fingers against Sherlock’s cheek and brow. “I’m glad. It’s… it’s good you had Watson.” He was struggling to keep his own breathing even, but Sherlock didn’t need John’s own emotions now, so he kept them tamped down. “It was very smart of you, to have Watson. To keep him and talk to him. To look after yourself like that, to bring yourself comfort like that. Some soldiers under stress do bad things, unhealthy things, to cope. Your bear, that was healthy of you, Sherlock. That was good. You’re a good lad. You’re my good soldier. My good boy.”

Sherlock’s grip on the bear relaxed. He exhaled and his shoulders dropped from their tight hunch. He was being praised, not mocked, for the bear. It was all right. His Captain understood. His Captain always understood.

He would understand the next part. He would. He would.

“Watson knows everything I did,” whispered Sherlock, “But he’s just a teddy bear. A toy. He can’t… he can’t… it doesn’t care. It’s just a toy.”

John’s hand was still stroking his face, his hair. “Do you want to tell me now?”

“Yes, please sir.”

“All right.” John rose, and helped Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock’s eyes remained downcast, fixed on the bear in his hands. He was a little afraid that Watson would be taken off him, but instead the Captain instructed Sherlock to lie down. The Captain stretched out beside him, put his arm around his shoulders, brought him close. The Captain took Sherlock’s hand, the one that still held the bear, and arranged them, so that Watson was between him. Sherlock could feel and see the toy resting in the valley of their bodies where their chests met.

Sherlock’s hand clutched convulsively around the bear.

“You can keep the bear, Private. Of course you can. I’m so proud of you, for thinking of it. For keeping him with you. For telling him the things you had to say. That was so smart. You looked after yourself, as best you could. I’m so pleased with you, Private Holmes. Sherlock. I’m so pleased that you did that. But you can tell me now, if you want to. You don’t have to say everything, if you’re not ready. We can work our way up. There’s no hurry. You’re home now. You’re home and safe and I’m so glad. You cannot say anything that will change that. You cannot say anything that will make me not love you. There is nothing you could possibly have done to make me leave you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

In the silence that followed, Sherlock’s breathing was stressed but steady. John’s was even. It took every effort of will he had to make that so.

“I know this is hard, Private Holmes,” said the Captain softly after a time, “So if you want to, you can tell Watson, and I’ll hear it this time. I’ll just listen. I won’t say anything.” He stroked Sherlock’s hair again.

Sherlock curled onto his side, tucking himself against his Captain, but he looked down at the Watson bear so he didn’t have to see how his Captain looked at him.

And he began to talk.

He told Watson (and his Captain) about having to run, having to leave his life behind to keep it safe. He told bear and man about loneliness and fear; about exhaustion and doubt; about regret and sorrow and anger. He told them both about temptation, and temptation resisted because the needle might have brought respite, but it might have killed him, or worse, killed John, and anyway, John would have been mad if Sherlock had made it home alive but a junkie again.

Sherlock told about the minor crimes he’d committed to get closer to the major criminals. He talked about the law enforcement operations he’d helped to organise, and the one he’d compromised to get closer to the kingpins.

He talked about being stabbed by an informant, but the blade going through Watson, deflecting the blow sufficiently to allow escape; how John saved his life in every incarnation.

He talked about being shot, the bullet coming to rest in his ribs, below his lung, and thinking this time, this time, he would die, it was inevitable, it could not be avoided, as the assassin came up and aimed at his forehead for the second, the killing shot, before one of Mycroft’s agents stepped out of the shadows to kill first. And how angry Sherlock had been that the agent wasn’t John. Should have been, should have been, should have been and wasn’t, because Mycroft said it was too dangerous for John, and Mycroft was probably right, _but but but_ oh god, Sherlock missed him. Wanted him. Wanted John safe, so he kept his longing to himself and underwent surgery, and as soon as he could, moved on to the next target. Because he could only go home when this was over.

He told that unjudging bear and his patient Captain about the man, Jie Bao, he had crippled with a hammer to the knee so he could get to Tarasov, the next in the chain. Jie Bao was a bad man, true, a torturer, very good at his job, Sherlock knew, because he had allowed himself to be captured and tortured – burned with cigarettes, cut with broken glass, shocked with batteries and leads – so that he could get close enough to his target, Tarasov, a sadistic killer.

Sherlock had endured that pain, and seized his chance, and smashed a hammer into bone and tissue, and steeled himself to the screams of a terrible man, so that he could find this other man, this worse man, Tarasov, who had promised to kill John Watson slowly while Sherlock Holmes watched, and Sherlock more slowly still, just for fun.

Sherlock told them about the unknown man he’d killed in self-defence in Bruges, and about shooting Tarasov in cold blood in a dirty warehouse in Kiev.

He confessed to killing that very bad man, who had tortured and maimed and killed, and laughed about it. Tarasov had shown him photographs. Video, with soundtracks. Awful shrieking things. A taster, he’d said, of things to come. John’s slow death, and his own, and the detail of it was horrible, horrible, horrible, in the victims who had gone before, in the detail of what was waiting for him and John.

Kiev. A bullet to the brain. Clean. It was meant to be clean. But there was so much blood.

But he had to protect John, he had to get home, and nothing else had worked, there were no deductions left to be made, only brute force and he would do anything, hurt anyone, kill anyone to end this and keep John safe and come home. He would. He had.

But he had left Sebastian Moran to Mycroft, because he wanted so much to kill Moran with his bare hands, to smash and kill and make it stop, and he was afraid of it, afraid of what he was capable of. Afraid of the vivid detail in which he imagined murdering Moriarty’s right hand psychopath.

He wanted to, and was afraid to, and when he remembered Tarasov’s ruined face, and the blood and the brains all over his own skin, Sherlock didn’t think he could really do that again. But stopping Moran was necessary. Then Mycroft had promised to take care of it, to make them safe, to make it end, and he had taken that burden from him. Mycroft had kept him from becoming a monster. Hadn’t he?

And he was home now, and didn’t have to do that any more now, did he? Did he? The mission was over and he was sorry and he wasn’t, because they were alive, they were safe. It was all right, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

“Yes,” said John, rocking the weeping man in his arms, “That was war, and it’s over, and you’re home and you’re safe. You’re safe with me. I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. I’m sorry.”

“No. No, sir. No. I had a solo mission sir. To protect the unit. I had to protect my unit, sir.” He clung tight, his hand fisted in John’s vest, the bear forgotten.

John held him more closely still, caressed his hair and shoulders, let Sherlock shudder and cry and would not let himself do the same. He held Sherlock’s precious body close and rocked him and kissed his face.

“And you did. You did. I know it was terrible. I know that war does terrible things, and makes you do terrible things, but you’re _not_ those things, Sherlock. You did them, but you are not those things. You took care of us. You protected us. You completed your mission, and you stopped before you lost yourself. You did. You stayed true to who you are and you came home. You came home to me. Good man. My good soldier.”

John closed his eyes and pressed his face to Sherlock’s curls and absolutely refused to cry. And slowly, in increments, the awful tension left Sherlock’s body. His breathing became easier. His grip on John’s clothes and body loosened, until he let himself be held and rocked and it was all right.

Everything was going to be all right.

“I’ve got you now,” John murmured to him, as Sherlock became limp with exhaustion. “You’re safe. Let go. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock reached for the bear, which had fallen between them. He tugged it up and snuggled the bear under his chin, and he snuggled his own head under John’s chin. His thumb pressed against his lip, and John took his hand and pressed it closer, giving permission.

Sherlock sucked briefly on the pad of his thumb, then sighed, and sank into sleep.

Safe, now. Safe and forgiven.

When Sherlock awoke, half an hour later, Captain Watson still held him. Captain Watson, who had not slept, whose shoulders muscles were rigid with tension, although his hands in Sherlock’s hair were gentle.

“John?”

“Shh, now. It’s all right.”

Sherlock rubbed his head against John’s shoulder, and he burrowed into the comforting warmth. Watson bear was cuddled between them, still endlessly, patiently listening. Sherlock blinked at the bear, and tried to read the body lying beside him.

“Captain?”

“Hush, there. Unless you’re ready to stop, but you don’t have to. Stay right there. I’ll hold you. It’s all right.”

“You’re not all right, Captain.”

“It’s not your concern, Private.” John took a breath and held it. Forced himself to be calm.

“I’m allowed to ask, sir,” said Sherlock carefully, “It’s in the rules. You said I could. Tell me what’s wrong, Captain.”

John’s next breath shuddered in, then out. In, then out. “You’re right. Of course.”

“I know I’m right, sir. You made the rules, and your rules are excellent.”

That managed to startle a small laugh out of the Captain. “It’s nothing serious. I was just remembering things.” He looked at the battered bear squished between their bodies. “I’m very proud of you for having your Watson bear, Private.”

“Yes, sir. You said.”

“I didn’t have a bear, but I talked to the skull, while you were gone,” said John simply. “I told it how I felt after you fell.” His voice choked and stumbled, and then he continued, “About everything from that day, and talking to it, I ended up going through the clues you’d left me. I talked out loud to it and I worked out what you’d really done. That you weren’t really dead. And then I told it how much I missed you. How afraid I was for you. How frustrated and angry I was, because I wasn’t there to look after you, to protect my team. I tried talking to Ella, but that was no good at all. To go through what I was feeling, I’d have had to tell her you were alive, and that would either have got me sectioned or you dead. So I talked to the skull, and I waited for you.”

“Captain…”

“It’s all right. Remembering made me sad. That’s all. That you went through so much, and I wanted to be there, and I wasn’t. You were hurt, and I couldn’t help you.” He sounded lost, now.

Sherlock shifted in his Captain’s arms, moving to cover John’s body with his own. He kissed his Captain gently, then dropped little kisses all over his face, and wrapped him in his arms.

“It’s over, sir. John. Captain. It’s over. I’m here and we’re safe, and I’m never leaving you again. I will never leave you behind again.” More kisses, unexpectedly chaste, and then Sherlock wrapped his body around John’s, and if it were possible to cuddle someone fiercely, that was what he did.

John laughed, relief in his tone, and he snuggled in close. “Don’t you dare. I will follow you next time. To the absolute centre of hell, I will follow you.”

“It’s only hell,” whispered Sherlock, “When you’re not there.”

“I know what you mean,” said John. He kissed Sherlock’s shoulder, his collarbone, his chest.

Sherlock went happily languid in his arms, submitting with loose-limbed contentment to the kisses and caresses. “Sir?”

“Yes, Private?”

“May I have a cuddle, sir?”

“Yes you may, Private Holmes. You may have all the cuddles you want.”

“And so can you, Captain.”

Chuckling, Captain Watson gathered Private Holmes close. They snuggled together. Captain Watson found the bear jammed under his hip and brought the toy out. Placed it on Sherlock’s chest.

“There you go. Look after Watson. If I’m on duty at the hospital and you need someone to talk to, he will listen till I get home. All right?”

Sherlock held the bear in one hand, brought it up under his chin and sighed. “You can talk to him too, sir,” he said, “Watson’s a very good listener. Like his namesake.”

And this time, John was able to close his eyes, to breathe himself to calmness, to sleep.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This LJ post contains pictures of Sherlock's Watson](http://221b-hound.livejournal.com/99439.html)
> 
> [This further LJ Post contains details of a similar Watson and links to ones like the original. ](http://221b-hound.livejournal.com/100378.html)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is so much better than it used to be. Even Lestrade notices it. Sherlock takes better care of himself. He's even started to cook. But it's not quite right yet. Something is still missing. Sherlock has what he needs now - but what does John need?

_He found Mycroft crying, once. Mycroft was sixteen. He did not want to go back to school. Sherlock tried to hug him, and was told in no uncertain terms that his ridiculous sentimentality was not wanted or needed in any form._

_*_

The following afternoon, Sherlock was swooping around the alleged crime scene, acerbic and brilliant as ever. He spat out rapid-fire deductions, backtracking at the irritated looks on Donovan and Anderson’s faces to explain the observations that led to the inferences. He turned to roll his eyes at John, grin, and launch back into the work. Blood stains, fibres, a circled date on the calendar, something missing from the medicine cabinet, something added to the shower rack, something odd about the bathmat and something impossibly mundane about the laundry basket that should in fact have been stranger.

The child wasn’t kidnapped; she was a runaway. Or rather, _he_ was. _Transgender. Having a terrible time at home. Don’t you people know anything? Check the girlfriend’s house, and take a counsellor, and for God’s sake somebody tell that below-par mother that you can’t **starve** gender identity out of a person, moron, no wonder your son took off, I said **son** , oh get a **grip**._

Lestrade, arms folded, was regarding Sherlock with a kind of wincing, tolerant affection.

“He’s looking well,” he said to John.

“He is,” agreed John.

“Put a little weight on. Suits him.”

John agreed with a hum, keeping a wary eye out on the shrieking mother, his feet shifting to a more active stance.

“He’s come a long way since he came back.”

The shrieking subsided and John relaxed a little. “Yeah,” agreed John with a smile, “He has.”

“You too.”

John turned to raise an eye at Lestrade. “Well, the eye cleared up beautifully,” he said wryly.

Lestrade grimaced sheepishly. “I really am sorry about that.”

John grinned. “Can’t say I didn’t deserve it, to a degree.”

“Well, these days you look like the man who lost a penny and found a diamond. Things good between you two, then?”

“Yeah.” John became aware of the besottedness of his grin and sobered slightly. “Really good.”

“Have you two formally…?” Lestrade began, then frowned. “I mean. You don’t wear rings. I see you don’t wear rings, but I notice your chain.” He nodded at the faint line of the ball chain visible at John’s neck, “And it looks like he’s got one on, too. Is that you’re way of… declaring. Stuff.”

John kept his hands in his pockets, making an effort not to touch the chain at his neck. “Sort of. Yeah.” 

It had been an odd thing this morning. Sherlock had pressed his hand to the tags on John’s chest, and fingered the chain on his own tags. _I like knowing I can choose this_ , he’d said, _any time.  I wear them sometimes when we’re working._ Which was news to John. _They keep me anchored, on bad days._

So today they had both left their tags on, as a sort of experiment. It wasn’t about the Captain and his soldier. More for a sense of reassurance, acknowledging that part of their lives without needing to act on it. Anything, John thought, that helped Sherlock stay anchored was good. Last night had been good for him. Cathartic. Sherlock knew he could tell him anything, now. He knew John’s love was utterly unconditional, and that was good. John would talk to Sherlock again about seeking a therapist, though.  

Time to change the subject.

“You’re looking good yourself, Greg. Back to DI where you belong, eh?”

“Yep,” Lestrade cocked his head to look at Sherlock rummaging in a cupboard and emerging with an almost cheerful scowl as he laid out the evidence of the parents’ dodgy stolen car business on the side. He was thoroughly enjoying Sherlock stepping way outside the bounds of this particular case. The mother and stepfather were indeed obnoxious specimens. “New girlfriend, too. She’s a corker.”

“Anyone I know?'

“Might be. I’m not saying. His Worship can work it out – and then he can keep his conclusions to himself.”

“He probably can’t, you know.”

Sherlock whirled up to them at that moment, paused in front of Lestrade to say: “Molly’s treating you well, then? Make sure you make time for her. Overwork was half your trouble last time, and Molly deserves better.”

Lestrade snapped his open mouth shut and pursed his mouth ruefully. “She does,” he agreed. Then he brightened. “I’m taking her out to dinner tonight. Any suggestions?”

“Don’t let her eat anything spicy. Her face will go blotchy and then she’ll get flustered.”

“But she’s so cute when she’s flustered,” said Lestrade with a faraway look, picturing it.

“But not when she’s blotchy.”

“Molly is always cute.” Lestrade sounded a bit cross now.

Sherlock jabbed him in the chest. “You, Greg Lestrade, are stupidly in love.”

“You, Sherlock Holmes,” said Lestrade, jabbing back, “Are not one to talk.”

Sherlock blinked, looked at John, then took on an expression of such melting adoration that Lestrade very nearly blushed. John’s eyes went wide and bright, and years fell away from his lined face.

Then Sherlock held out his hand to John. “The British Library,” he instructed.

“Returning that book at last?” John asked, taking the offered palm in his.

“Both of them,” said Sherlock, with an impish grin. John exhaled a long suffering sigh that fooled no-one, and off they went.

*

_He practically lived at the library during the holidays. He read everything. Absolutely everything. He only stole one book, to replace his favourite that had been boxed up when he was seven. Mummy found it and made him give it back. That had been humiliating._

*

The librarian at the British Library shouted at Sherlock. A lot.

Sherlock flinched, and his fingers automatically went to the chain at his neck, before he forced his hand to drop.

“On the other hand,” said Sherlock calmly, “The books in combination with the digitally altered certificates proved that the seller was in fact committing fraud with the sole purpose of murdering the antiquarian book collector to cover up an earlier fraud, and thus a life was saved. That’s something even your limited brain can applaud, surely.”

The librarian, rather than applauding, become apoplectic. John was forced to intervene, not to help with the man’s breathing, but because he’d raised fists at Sherlock, and John was having none of that. Not one fucking second of that. Fucking _no_.

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock put on his fatigues, checked the duty list John had stuck to the fridge, and spent an hour wiping down the walls with a damp cloth in five centimetre squares while counting the number of times the swirls repeated in the wallpaper pattern.

“Everything all right, Private?”

“I’m taking care of my unit, sir,” said Sherlock softly.

“Good lad,” the Captain replied, patting Sherlock’s hip, “Good work.”

Mrs Hudson found Sherlock cleaning and, once over the shock of it, failed utterly to comment on how he was dressed or why he was wiping so slowly and in such small, even strokes. Instead, she returned in the evening with carrot cake, its top thick with cream cheese icing.

John took Sherlock, and the cake, to bed. Stripped of every scrap of clothing, including their tags, John straddled Sherlock’s lap and hand fed him pieces of cake. Sherlock sucked thick icing from John’s thumb and then got the bright idea of sucking it from other parts of John’s body. Two hours later, they lay in a relaxed sprawl on the crumb-smeared sheets while Sherlock fed pinches of cake to John, who hummed happily and lipped and licked carrot cake from Sherlock’s nimble fingers.

“How was it today, with both of us wearing the tags?” John asked.

“A little odd,” Sherlock admitted, “Though I found it calming to know I had the choice at any time to hand over to you, without waiting to come back here. I didn’t need it, but when I felt anxious, it helped. I’m not sure it was as good for you, though.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“You nearly beat up a librarian.”

John scowled.

“He was no danger to me, John. He was a _librarian_. If he had hit me, which was extremely unlikely, it would have been like being attacked by a dandelion. No muscle tone to speak of.”

“Not the point. And you think I wanted to thump him because of the tags? Because I would have wanted to thump him without them, you know.”

“He was rather provoked,” admitted Sherlock. He popped another pinch of cake between John’s lips before John could comment. “I simply note that you seemed more protective than usual, while wearing the tags. Which… I like, to a degree, I admit. But it seemed stressful to you. You reacted to that idiot woman yelling at me as well.”

“That idiot woman had nails like tiny shovels and she was waving them in your face like a lunatic.”

“Do you really think a blow would have landed? You think me that incapable of ducking a short sighted alcoholic?”

“No.” John opened his mouth to accept another morsel of cake on his tongue. Sherlock followed it with a kiss.

“You don’t have to be the Captain all the time, you know. Even with the tags on under our clothes. Don’t wear them, though, if it makes you tense.”

John nibble-kissed a line down Sherlock’s  jaw as he considered the issue.  “I don’t think I’m more tense than usual. Not that I’m usually tense. Alert, maybe.”

“Very… ‘alert’,” Sherlock said, stretching his neck to let John nibble at his collar bone.

“Right,” John laughed, “Look, all I mean is when we’re working out there, I’ve got your back. It’s my job. It’s your job to be brilliant. It’s mine to help you, keep you covered, mop up the mess when I can’t stop you from getting pummelled. It’s not a matter of either being in charge or being the back-up. That’s just what I do. It’s what drove me half mad when you were gone, that you needed me and I wasn’t there.”

Sherlock kissed him again, and once more, softly. “John,” he murmured, “Always looking after me.”

“Does that annoy you?”

“It used to, a little. Not any more.”

“We don’t need to do the Captain Watson thing any more, if you don’t want to, you know,” said John carefully, “When we’re working, you’re in charge. You’re the genius, and that’s your area of expertise, after all. It’s like the army that way, a bit. I may have outranked some bomb techs, but there is no way I could have done their job.”

“You think I am the equivalent of a bomb tech?” Sherlock arched a cool eyebrow at John.

“No, I’m just… we are what we are, Sherlock, and it works for us. I know when you’re leading. Anytime you want it to switch – if you want something, need looking after – and I haven’t already noticed and stepped up for that, all you have to do is let me know.”

Sherlock sighed and fed John another mouthful of cake. “I think we’re in the process of integration in any case, John. For now… for now, the tags help. They keep the line clear for me. Control is important to me. Discipline. It’s how I have trained myself to be frankly _superb_ at what I do. I think a less formal arrangement, a less precise one, will evolve in due course. At present, however, having a distinct line to cross is of immense benefit.”

John blinked. “Okay. I get that. Just remember, even if you haven’t got your tags but you need that, all you have to do is ask. I’ll always give you what you need, Sherlock.”

“I know.” Sherlock pressed a lingering kiss to John’s mouth made sweet by cake and icing. “You are perfect. You are always perfect. And besides,” he added with a grin, “Lestrade thinks they’re our betrothal gifts to one another.”

“Yeah, he said.”

“An accurate observation,” Sherlock said, “They do signify a promise, don’t they?”

“They do,” John agreed. He pressed his finger to Sherlock’s sternum and drew a line from there to his left nipple then down to Sherlock’s heart. He spread his hand there, the pads of his fingers and thumb poised over Sherlock’s skin, as though he were cupping the organ, the strong rhythm of it, in his palm. Then he flattened his palm to the skin to feel the beat of Sherlock’s increased heart rate right through flesh and bone.

Sherlock leaned into the pressure, feeling John’s fingerprints on him. He placed his own hand over John’s to hold it close, pressed his lips to John’s and tasted sweetness and certainty and promises made and kept. And his kiss said yes, and thank you, and I promise too.

*

_He remembers sitting on Grandmere’s lap while he ate an orange that got all over his face and hands, all over her blouse, and she just laughed and called him her funny boy. It’s one of his few happy memories of his childhood._

*

After his day clinic was over that week, John got home to find that Sherlock had assigned himself jankers duties again. The result was a very fancy three course meal. Vichyssoise to start, something complicated with goose and prunes and liver for main course, both recipes from a Julia Child cookbook, and to finish an astonishing ball of chocolate that, when broken open, cascaded honeycomb, caramel sauce and an orange liqueur across the plate, the whole resting on what looked like a little pile of dirt that turned out to be granules of dark chocolate and crystallised ginger.

“You cook,” John observed, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“So it appears,” agreed Sherlock, not taking offense, “It seems I just had to find recipes complicated enough to keep my interest engaged. Molecular gastronomy has a pleasing air of science about it. It’s very focusing. And the bathroom really doesn’t need another scrub. I thought this was a more logical area to try next.”

“There’ll be leftovers for days,” said John, slowing down his customary eat-before-the-air-raid-siren-blows pace to properly savour the dishes.

Sherlock ate sparingly as per _his_ usual custom, but he ate, and was happy to let John feed him the occasional extra mouthful from his own fork.

“This is fabulous. Must have taken you forever.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I started some of the preparation a few days ago. I had to buy a few items, and a mould. Then it was a few hours’ work today. Cases have taken longer.”

“I appreciate the effort,” remarked John as he licked chocolate and orange liqueur from his finger, then offered his likewise sticky thumb to Sherlock to lick clean.

Sherlock took his sweet time sucking on John’s thumb to clean it of every last hint of flavour. “It’s my responsibility too,” he said eventually, “Looking after the unit.” He smiled, a little wickedly. “Sir.”

Not all of the leftovers were consumed in the kitchen, and it turned out that vichyssoise was a lot less of an erotic adventure in the bedroom than they’d imagined. Still, the chocolate balls more than made up for that.

*

Captain Watson and Private Holmes slotted into their lives, part of the fabric of it, appearing and subsiding as needed, sometimes only for a few minutes, at other times for hours. They were like no army anyone had ever seen, but the command structure met their needs. Everyone knew who was in charge, and when. It made the surrendering of autonomy much easier for Sherlock, and he learned from it.

Sherlock now asked for affection when he needed it. After bad days. After good days. After dreams that shook him awake, or after successful cases. Sometimes he didn’t wait until he was in dog tags. Sometimes he just sighed and folded into John’s embrace, and John kissed him and held him. From time to time, he would feel uncertain, fearing something new was too childish, but he could always ask, he knew that, and his Captain would always reassure him. “It’s allowed. Of course it is. Good boy. My good lad.”

Sherlock slept better, ate more healthily and more often – unless he was on a case, when he needed his mental faculties at their keenest. He made sure John was in the loop when things looked like getting dangerous; he more often waited for John instead of plummeting headfirst into dodgy situations. He got much better at the basics of looking after himself.

Sherlock liked it still when the Captain gave the orders. He needed still to surrender it all, the responsibility and the endless, whirling, exhausting thought processes that sometimes came close to overwhelming him. He liked it when the Captain read to him, or gave him exercises.

He liked it when, less often now, he lay in his Captain’s arms and surrendered to those beautiful, sturdy hands on his body; and when he used his mouth as his Captain directed for both their pleasure. But increasingly, sex was for their John-and-Sherlock time, and this space, this time, it was more and more for other kinds of release. He liked it when the Captain read to him, or bathed him, or cuddled him while he surrendered to his most basic need for reassurance.

When Sherlock needed calmness and centring, he worked from the list of jankers chores. He became an excellent chef (of course) favouring French cuisine and increasingly experimenting with molecular gastronomy dishes.

Captain Watson took care of him and John took care of him too. Captain Watson told him it was all right to want things, to have things that he’d never been allowed to have before. His Captain made it safe to not be in charge, to not have to know everything all the time, to not be perfect.

His Captain made it safe to not be strong, and it made Sherlock feel stronger the rest of the time.

It hadn’t occurred to him that John might need that, too.

*

Sherlock was less likely to fling himself recklessly into harm’s way, but harm had no such compunctions about flinging itself at Sherlock. Sure, Sherlock was a genius, but he missed things. And people – especially desperate people – could defy predictability.

That was how John found himself stuck on the upper gantry in the film studio with the soon-to-be-unemployable, enterprisingly paparazzi-on-the-side, murderously resentful knife-wielding extra, while Sherlock hung on to the gantry below in a death grip, the back of his hand bleeding from the glancing blow that had sent him toppling. His excellent reflexes had brought him to relative safety, and he was trying to work out how to get back up, to draw that idiot – who didn’t accept the game was up – away from John.

The extra – a tall, thin man with surprising agility – lunged at John. John lunged back, putting in a solid low punch, another higher. Both blows landed, but then the miscreant punched John in the side of the face, rocking him back on his feet. He lunged at John again.

As the knife whistled by, John darted out of the way, using a support rail to swing wide and drop to the lower level. A risky move, but the risks of staying where he was were greater. He hit the platform, wobbled, and tilted.

Sherlock grabbed at his arm, caught it, but the momentum was too much, and John’s weight dragged him through Sherlock’s grip. For a moment their hands clasped, for a moment it looked possible that he wouldn’t fall, but it was only a moment. Sherlock and John stared at each other, cries unvoiced, as John slipped. Sherlock grabbed at the air, still trying to reach John as he fell away.

Fifteen feet, he fell, crashing into a fortuitously placed pile of boxes, fake bricks and foam rocks. Instead of breaking half his bones, John was bruised from shoulder to knee along his right side.

The same could not be said for the extra, because the idiot used his greater height to jump safely onto the lower gantry in his pursuit of Sherlock, but Sherlock grabbed him by the feet and up-ended him over the sides to land much left softly on the studio floor. Two broken legs and a concussion. Sherlock would have inflicted more damage, except he was cradling John and calling the ambulance for him, instead of kicking the shit out of the extra.

John was home three days later, sore and limping, but a long way from dead.

Sherlock hovered at the bedroom door while John awkwardly took off his jacket and shirt. He waited until John had struggled with two buttons, then he stepped forward.

John turned slowly and painfully, and saw Sherlock’s dog tags hanging loose over Sherlock’s open shirt. He drew himself up, and in a way drew himself in, becoming heavier and larger, somehow.

“Private Holmes,” he said, putting away the exhaustion and the pain.

“Shh,” whispered Sherlock.

“You need me,” said the Captain.

“No sir,” said Sherlock, “You need me. I’m taking care of you, sir. That’s in the rules. You look after me, I look after you.”

John stared at him as though uncomprehending. Sherlock guided him to sit on the bed. In gentle steps, he helped John remove his shirt and vest. He kneeled to remove John’s shoes, and helped divest him of trousers. With his large, strong hands (the left one bandaged – no stitches had been required) he helped John lay on the bed.

“Rest there,” said Sherlock, “I’ll be right back.” He pulled the sheet over John’s body, the right side mottled with black, dark purple, yellow bruising. He returned soon after with the circular tub, soap, a cloth. Toothbrush and toothpaste. Water.

“They didn’t bathe you,” said Sherlock.

“I yelled at the nurses,” admitted John grumpily.

“You can yell at me if you like, sir. I won’t mind.” Sherlock gave John a gentle bed bath, his touches on the injured flesh especially light.

“Why would I yell at you?”

“You must be tired if you’re asking that question. Sir.”

John was too tired for banter. “You didn’t do anything wrong, soldier.”

“I was careless. I missed how desperate he would be to lose not only this job, but all future jobs. I let him hurt you.”

“You didn’t _let_ anything, and I should have known better than to jump. I’m not half bloody gazelle like you are.”

Sherlock helped to prop John up against his chest and assisted with toothbrushing and spitting. Then he eased John back onto the bed.

“I’ll be right back. Do you need anything? Water? Tea?”

“New body’d be good.”

“I like your body, sir.”

“Right now it’s a wreck.”

“I’ll look after you, sir. You’ll be all right soon.”

John closed his eyes and listened to Sherlock ferry all the wash-up things out of the room. He was dozing when Sherlock came back. He opened his eyes.

Sherlock had removed his dog tags.

John’s brow creased in puzzlement, the furrows growing deeper as Sherlock reached over to remove John’s as well.

“Sherlock?”

“We don’t need these,” said Sherlock. He had stripped down to his underwear and he got into bed beside John, on his left side. Carefully, he helped John get comfortable, head and body pillowed against Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock’s arms placed gently around his torso. Sherlock kissed John’s brow and brushed a hand softly over John’s waist.

“I’m sorry, John.”

“What on earth for?” mumbled John, trying to unwind. It felt better, being here with Sherlock than at the hospital. It felt much better, he realised, since his tags had come off. And Sherlock’s.

“I should have realised before, John.”

“Still not with you.”

Sherlock nuzzled the top of John’s head with his nose and cheek. “I realised while you were in hospital, and you kept asking whether _I_ was all right, that you are always either Captain Watson or Doctor Watson, whether or not I choose to wear my tags. Technically, you are not always in command – but you have responsibilities, as captain or doctor or both, up and down the chain of command. All the time.”

Lying in his arms, John began to tense. His pulse and respiration both picked up.

“Shh, John. Shh. I’ve got you.”

“Sherlock…”

“It’s all right, John. Here, now, you don’t have to be the Captain, or the Doctor. Right now, you’re John. Just John. My John. And you are safe. You don’t have to be the strong one, at least for a while. Let go. I've got you. I’m not leaving you. I’m never going away from you again. I promised, and I never say what I don’t mean.”

John’s breath had started to hitch. He drew a breath and held it, and held it, and held it.

“Please, John. Please. Let me look after you. Please.” Sherlock stroked John’s hair and shoulders, he cuddled him and moved in such sweet and careful ways to rock him. “It’s all right, John. My beautiful John. My love. I love you. I should tell you that more often. I love you. I’m looking after you, now. You’ve made me strong enough for two. I can do that for a while. You can be the Captain later, or the Doctor, whoever and wherever and whenever you want. For now, though, you can just be John. I’ve got you.”

John exhaled with a strangled whimper, and his face creased in the effort to hold on. To be strong. Still.

Sherlock kissed his brow, his cheek, and ran his fingers through John’s hair. He kissed John’s lips, so softly, and breathed against them. “I’ve got you. We’re fine. We are. And I am going to look after you. Read to you. Feed you. Hug you. Whatever you need. And when you’re well, we will go out and solve crimes together. We will show them who we are, together, and nobody will ever separate us again. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Good. My John. My good and beautiful John. Shh.”

John released another breath, this one shaking and then ragged and it ended in a sudden sob. Sherlock rocked him through the second sob, and third and fourth, and the shuddering of his shoulders as John let go, finally. Through the sounds of his weeping, John began to whisper, and Sherlock gathered him closer still, to hear.

“ _When_ y _ou fell_ ,” spilled hoarsely from John’s tongue, “ _My god, my god, when you fell_.”

Sherlock held him more firmly, yet still gentle with John’s injuries, and rocked him, perforce rocking both of them. “I’m so sorry, John. I didn’t know how else to save you. But it’s over. I promise. I swear to you, John. Never again. Never. I’m here. I will always be here. I have you. I’m looking after you now.”

John clung and cried, shivering until he was limp and pliable in Sherlock’s arms, and still Sherlock held him tight. And John held onto that slim, strong body as though he were life itself.

Slowly, John let exhaustion and stress and fear leech out of him. When he was finally calm, he turned his face to kiss at Sherlock’s fingers, the bare skin of Sherlock’s body. “Thank you, baby.” His voice was hoarse, face wet, but the tears had stopped.

Sherlock snuggled down next to him, kissed him, and held him. “Whatever you need, you can have,” he said softly, “I should be better at seeing what that is. I’m learning. In the meantime, tell me. It’s important that you tell me.”

“This is good,” whispered John, “This is lovely.”

“Whatever you need.”

“Just hold me. I want to feel you close to me,” said John, and Sherlock did, surrounding John’s body with his, with the lightest touch, his hands and torso, the heat of his body, enveloping John’s weary, battered frame. Sherlock kissed John’s face, chastely, and he breathed against John’s skin, _shh, shh, shh_ ,

And for the first time in a very, very long time, John let the tension go. He sank into Sherlock’s skin and breath and heart, and let himself need, and let himself not be strong, and he let it all go while Sherlock held him up. Held him safe.

**


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what balance looks like. This is what it is to take care of yourself so that you also take care of the one you love.

“Nice work,” said Lestrade. The alleged victim, actual blackmailer, was being led away, the alleged stalker, actual victim, reunited with her wife, the bright blue budgerigar restored to his eight-year-old owner and all was right with the world, “Want to come to the pub for a pint to celebrate?”

“Why would I want to do that?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t know. Because it’s nice to celebrate your successes with your friends?”

Sherlock considered this answer. “Next time,” he said, “I have an appointment.”

“You, John?”

“Sorry Greg. Appointment. Next time.”

“You’re not going off to get fitted for his and his tuxes, are you?”

Sherlock frowned “What are you talking about, Lestrade?” And then his expression cleared. “Oh, you think we’re getting married. We’re not getting married. Are we getting married, John?” The last was an honest query, a tilt of the head and a raised eyebrow.

John grinned. “Can’t see the need for it,” he admitted, “Though if we do, you should wear white. You’d look smashing in white.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Bone or cream. Bone.”

“You _would_ choose _bone_.”

“And blue for you. Cobalt. To match…” Sherlock waved towards John’s eyes generally, then huffed a breath. “We should get you a blue suit anyway. Ridiculous to wait for a wedding we don’t need and will probably never have just so I can see you in it.”

“Right,” said John, laughing, “I’ll get the blue suit, we’ll get you a bone one, go out to a posh dinner. Deal?”

“Deal,” agreed Sherlock, and returned his attention to Lestrade. “Why would you think we were getting married?”

Lestrade shrugged. “You’ve already exchanged… necklaces.” He nodded.

Sherlock ran his finger along the very edge of the ball chain visible at his neck. “Well, yes.” He grinned at John. “What other commitment do we need?”

“Just an excuse to dress up in the suits, like you said,” Lestrade claimed, grinning at them both.

John rolled his eyes. “Like Sherlock needs an excuse to peacock himself around the place.”

Sherlock looked mildly offended. “ _Peacock myself around the place_?”

“Ignore him, Sherlock,” Lestrade offered, “He’s just jealous because you’re prettier than he is.”

Now Sherlock’s offended glare was on Lestrade. “John is very pretty.”

“That’s right,” agreed John, attempting to keep a straight face, “I’m practically a princess.”

“No, see, that’s Sherlock again,” laughed Lestrade. Sherlock elected to preen this time.

“Come on, you,” John tugged on Sherlock’s hand, “Places to be.”

Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around John’s shorter ones and fell in beside him.

Their taxi took them to the same building, but their appointments were on different floors. John was seeing Ella again. Sherlock had found a highly qualified therapist in the same clinic. They specialised in battle-related trauma, after all. Sherlock wasn’t sure it was all that helpful sometimes, but he couldn’t say it was a waste of time. And it took some of the burden from John, and really, that was all the incentive he needed. To take care of himself was to take care of John; to take care of the unit. That was his responsibility too. The chain of command, the chain of care and responsibility, went both ways, after all.

*

That night, Sherlock lay curled in the vee of John’s legs, head resting on his Captain’s shoulder. John held Watson bear in one hand, his thumb caressing the bear’s silky head. His other hand was curved around Sherlock’s back and up, so that he could play with the ends of Sherlock’s hair as well.

Sherlock had John’s dog tags in his mouth, sucking softly on them as he nestled into the warmth of John’s body.

“Do you want to, then?”

“Want to what, sir?” The response was slightly muffled around the tags.

“Get married?”

Sherlock snuffled a bit sleepily, let the tags fall from his mouth, and curled a hand up to John’s hair. “I want to see you in a blue suit, sir. And then help you out of it, sir. And then suck your cock until we’re both dizzy. Sir.”

John looked down at the wicked grin beaming up at him. “Not fussed then?  You seemed interested.”

Sherlock regarded John closely. “I already promised to grow old with you. As far as I’m concerned, we _are_ married. But you liked the idea. A little.”

“I think I just had a momentary vision of you in a wedding suit. It was distracting.”

Sherlock kissed John’s chest. “A wedding suit can be arranged without the actual wedding, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Or even a wedding _gown._ Whatever you need.”

“Cheeky bastard.”

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock manoeuvred to kiss his Captain, then settle back down on his broad chest.

John kissed his hair, nosed against his ear, and ran his fingers across Sherlock’s waist. He picked up Sherlock’s hand and raised it to his mouth; kissed the fingers. Then he folded those fingers in his hand and held them to his chest, over his heart.

“You’re my good soldier,” he said, “My good lad. I love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed in contentment. “I love you too. My Captain. My Doctor. My John.”

John nuzzled his hair and began suddenly to giggle.

“How soon can you get the wedding dress, then? And shoes to match?”

“And a veil, if you like.”

John giggled harder. “Veil. Garter. The lot.”

“Is that an order, sir?”

“Consider it a request.”

“Make it an order, sir.”

John made it an order, and the pair of them laughed together as though it were a crime scene.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And once you've found healing, perhaps it's possible to start to help someone else begin to mend, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goodness, that's been exhausting. It's the first fic I've written in entirety and done several drafts of before posting. I originally intended to post it over a few weeks, but RL demands made it seem easier to post most of it in one day (today) - though my being impatient to post played its significant part. Given it was a different kind of D/s story, I hope you liked it.
> 
> I hope y'all don't mind me doing this, but as a bit of shameless self promotion - if you like my work here and would like to support my pro fic, a new ebook has just been released. The story, Homecoming, is a vastly rewritten version of a fanfic I wrote here, with new backstory etc. You can find out about it [on my romance blog, Adventurous Hearts.](http://harrisheart.wordpress.com/2014/03/19/homecoming-a-talbott-burns-mystery-now-available/) No obligation, naturally, but it would awesome if you wanted to get it or one of my other romance, fantasy or horror books. :)

On Mycroft Holmes’s birthday, Sherlock did something unprecedented.

He visited his brother, at his home. Not only that, he brought a gift.

Mycroft stared at the parcel in the centre of his dining table with undisguised suspicion. That wariness was nothing compared to the suspicion he levelled at the small box Sherlock had placed right in front of him.

Annoyed, Sherlock lifted the lid, unfolded the sides splayed the box wide to reveal – a cake. Chocolate and orange. Layers of rich, almond-meal cake held together with layers of orange cream, chocolate cream, topped with buttery icing. He’d made it himself, but he didn’t tell Mycroft that.

Sherlock sat opposite his brother and offered him the fork he’d included in the box.

“Happy Birthday, Mycroft.”

Mycroft curled a lip at him, waiting for the snide comment, and when none came, he decided to hear one anyway.

With a sigh, Sherlock reached over and gathered up a mouthful of cake on the tines and slipped it between his own lips. He made a bit of a production out of eating it.

“It’s delicious,” said Sherlock after he swallowed, “You should try it.” He offered the fork again, but the offer was ignored, so he helped himself to a second mouthful. Swallowed it. Licked his lips. Took a third bite.

Mycroft took the fork on the fourth offering; damned near snatched it, he was so annoyed. He stabbed it into the cake, brought it to his mouth and at the last moment gave the confection the respect it deserved, because it was indeed a very good cake. Rich and moist; the orange tangy, the chocolate with a bitter bite. He gave Sherlock an oddly triumphant look after he swallowed, as much as to dare him to comment.

“It’s allowed, you know,” said Sherlock, in a voice he had not used with his brother since they were both very young. “Things you enjoy. Things that bring you comfort. They are allowed.”

Mycroft scowled at him, then smirked unpleasantly. “Dr Watson’s campaign to make you a better man is going well then?”

Instead of rising to the bait, Sherlock simply drew a thoughtful breath. “John doesn't have a campaign to make me a better man,” he said at last, “That I have become one is, I believe, incidental. His campaign has been to make me a _happier_ man. That has certainly succeeded.” Sherlock tilted a wry smile at Mycroft. “I know you don't put much store in that. Being happy. Perhaps it's the wrong word. It’ll do for now. You should try it, though, Mycroft. Try being kind to yourself. It's not as debilitating as we were taught. It's quite liberating.”

Mycroft breathed in slowly. Breathed out. He searched and searched for the mockery in his brother’s manner and couldn’t find it.

“And how's the PTSD?” he asked, attempting mockery of his own, but it failed to make a sincere appearance, and Sherlock only shrugged.

“I've stopped flinching at Russian accents. That must count for something.”

Banter. Not as acid as usual. Mycroft felt all at sea.

“I must be off,” said Sherlock, rising. “Try to not be a miserable arse all day, Mycroft. I know it’s your default setting, but staying on default is sheer laziness. And dull. Try not to be tedious.”

He let himself out.

Mycroft waited until the door was closed and took another mouthful of cake. It tasted better, unaccompanied by the usual snide comments about girth.

Those comments had started when he was thirteen. Mycroft knew to the day when they had become a part of the way they spoke to each other. The day he’d betrayed his little brother so he wouldn’t be sent to bed without supper, yet again. The comments had rankled for thirty years, because part of him knew he deserved them, and part of him felt it was unfair. _I was only a child myself._ But he disliked giving himself excuses. What they had become was Mycroft’s own fault. He knew that.

Perhaps, though, today was the start of something different.

Mycroft opened the gift in the centre of the table. He had deduced its contents, in part at least, but had been disinclined to believe the deduction, considering the source. And yet, there it was, unveiled as he folded the paper aside.

A small hamper, filled with little treats. A packet of Bassett’s Liquorice Wands. A sherbet fountain with its liquorice stick rising from the middle of the yellow and red packaging. A small box of Harrods Turkish Delight, the soft pink sweets dusted with icing sugar that used to get everywhere, and he’d loved licking the icing from his fingers, back when he’d allowed himself such indulgences. And there was more. Barratt’s Flumps. Boyne’s sugar mice. Lion’s butterscotch gums.

All the things he’d loved as a boy, and had not eaten in years. Years and years and years. Had denied himself in some strange attempt to make amends for what he’d done to his brother, even as his brother had, ever since, accused him of gluttony in response to his abandonment.

And propped up behind this strange hamper of childhood luxuries, a thick pad of art paper.

A piece of paper was clipped to the front of the pad, a simple sketch. A dog, the neighbour’s basset hound, stretched out asleep under a tree. It was a flawed piece, lacking sufficient detail, but the lines of the animal had been caught well enough, and its sweet face and long ears. It was a piece drawn with some skill, but much love.

Mycroft had so longed for a dog, but it was forbidden. He’d befriended Mr Trelawney’s elderly dog instead, sitting with it under the trees each afternoon when he was home. Until Mummy had put a stop to that as well. ( _Dogs are dirty, Mycroft, and you must concentrate on your studies_.)

Underneath the picture, in Sherlock’s hand, was written: _It’s allowed._

Sherlock had kept this. For thirty years, he’d kept this drawing, and remembered these things about his older brother. And here they were, given without mockery, without snide commentary. Only this. “It’s allowed.”

Mycroft rose and walked to his window to look down on the street. Sherlock had emerged from the foyer and onto the pavement, and Mycroft watched as the short doctor unhitched himself from a letterbox, against which he had been leaning.

Doctor Watson said something to Sherlock. Sherlock leaned down to kiss John on the cheek, to say something. The doctor nodded and turned, and the two men held hands and walked away.

Mycroft watched them go.

He went back to his table and opened the art pad.  He took up the black felt-tipped pen that accompanied the gift, and made a line. A second. Third to tenth, and lost count, as he drew.

He paused to open the liquorice wands and put the end of one in his mouth, rolling it side to side along his lips and tongue to enjoy the flavour and texture.

And he drew.

These things that had not been allowed. These pleasures. _There is no practical purpose to art, don’t waste your time. There is no nutritional value to sweets. Grow up. Grow up, Mycroft Holmes. That is infantile and you are too old for that. You are ten years old now, and it’s time to grow up._

Mycroft finished the sketch and sat staring at the lines of his brother’s face as it was when he was six, while his hands shook and his eyes itched and itched and itched.

_It’s allowed._

_His campaign is to make me a happier man._

Mycroft Holmes was much too old to cry.

Instead, he ate his cake.

*

John went to meet Sherlock as the latter emerged onto the street. “How did he react?”

Sherlock bent to kiss John’s cheek. “On a scale from _what are you doing here?_ to _stop being a stupid child_ , I think we managed _I have no idea what to make of this_.”

“Pretty well, then.”

“I think so, yes.” Sherlock took John’s hand and they walked off together down the street towards St James’s Park. Ostensibly, the appearance of a couple of mandarin ducks among the usual population of tufted, ruddy and mallard ducks had a potential impact on their latest investigation into the death – possibly the murder – of a well-known ornithologist or, as Beatrice Clooney had preferred to be known, an anatidaeologist. John insisted on using the term duckologist in his notes, which annoyed and amused Sherlock in equal measure.

But Sherlock had also confessed to simply wanting to watch the ducks. He’d spent time studying several breeds of duck at a pond near his childhood home. So they went to the pond and watched ducks.

“That one keeps staring at me,” asserted John, pointing out a mallard with a surprisingly surly expression.

“Do not succumb to anatidaephobia, John. There are ducks everywhere in this city and it could make work inconvenient.”

“Anati…?”

“The fear that you are being watched by ducks.”

John started to giggle, then snort. “Fear of ducks.”

“Of being _watched_ by ducks.”

“What’s irrational about that?” John asked, still giggling. He pointed at the surly mallard. “That little bastard’s definitely got it in for me.”

“What have you ever done to ducks, John?”

“I’ve eaten them. Delicious. You should look out, yourself. That _duck a l’orange_ you made on the weekend was incredible.”

“We’ll never get the stains from the port wine out of the sheets, though.”

“Maybe we should stop eating in bed.”

“Maybe we should simply buy darker coloured sheets.”

“And we see once more why you are the genius in this relationship.”

Sherlock grinned and sprawled on the garden bench, his head in John’s lap, his feet dangling over the end of the bench. John played with Sherlock’s hair for a while, pulling the curls out straight and letting them spring back against Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock reached up to take one of John’s hands, kiss the knuckles then press the palm of John’s hand over the dog tags under his shirt. John continued to play with his hair. Sherlock would never have believed how much he enjoyed that, but he did. Immensely.

He looked into the London sky, watching a flock of ducks arrow across his view. _A skein of ducks. Also a string or a team of ducks_. They flew in a V to reduce wind resistance for all but the lead bird. More efficient for flying distances, giving greater range.

As he watched, the lead bird dropped from the point of the V, falling back to the end of the formation, where the wind resistance was lowest. Another, more rested bird took the point position.

_We are not a fireteam or a unit. We are a skein of two. Knitted together. Knowing when to drop back, when to take the lead, for the benefit of both. We have learned that._

Sherlock grinned at John. John, not understanding the reason for it, smiled back anyway. He started to lean down to kiss Sherlock…

Then Sherlock sat straight up so suddenly he nearly collided with John’s nose. “Ah!”

“Ah, what?” John rubbed the tip of his unscathed nose, noting the close call.

“Clooney wasn’t murdered. She was killed by a skein of ducks.”

“Murdered by ducks? Not doing much to make me feel less afraid of the evil-eye mallard over there.” But John was grinning.

“ _John_ ,” said Sherlock in a voice half affection, half exasperation. “She looked up while crossing the road to see a V formation of ducks coming into the park. She stopped in the middle of the road and looked up, and identified the mandarins tailgating on the formation. Her last words were not about tailing mandarins, but _tailing mandarins_!”

“Because that makes sense.”

“Not _following_ the mandarin ducks, John, you lovely idiot – but the phenomenon of these two mandarin ducks being allowed tail positions in the formation of a different species of duck. It was a professional puzzle, not an obscure accusation of theft. The Met should be looking for a hit and run driver, not a duck smuggler.”

John laughed again. “We have the weirdest job sometimes.”

Sherlock paused in his texting to kiss John on his nose, finished texting Lestrade, then devoted all of his attention to kissing John. John demonstrated his approval by wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s hips and grabbing delighted handfuls of his bum. The Belstaff was beautifully designed for concealing that from the viewing public, but Sherlock’s happy, rumbling moan was a dead giveaway anyway.

“Let’s go home,” Sherlock murmured in John’s ear when he could speak, “I’ve made summer pudding. And we have clean sheets.”

“I don’t know why we bother with crockery at all,” John laughed.

“It’s a mystery,” agreed Sherlock.

 


	16. Command Structure cover and ebooks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I do plan on writing a little follow up to this sometime, to explore what happens next with Mycroft and the boys, but RL continues to interfere, darn it.
> 
> In the meantime, LJ's Quarryquest has created a cover and converted the files to a single ebook, in mobi or epub, if that's how you like your fic.

 

[Cover by Quarryquest](http://www.sendspace.com/file/0gjfqa)   
[Command Structure epub](http://www.sendspace.com/file/tcxjzh)   
[Command Structure mobi](http://www.sendspace.com/file/dmicf4)

 

[Lovesfic also did a lovely cover](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1451707%22), if you want to see that too!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "Command Structure" by 221b_hound](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1451707) by [Lovesfic (me23)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/me23/pseuds/Lovesfic)
  * [Command Structure [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4881505) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)
  * [We Are a Skein of Two: Illustration for 221b_hound's Command Structure](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7752076) by [WillowGrove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowGrove/pseuds/WillowGrove)




End file.
